


inking indigo

by matchaball



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, F/M, Found Family, Language of Flowers, Platonic Soulmates, Romantic Soulmates, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2018-07-18 07:19:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7304887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchaball/pseuds/matchaball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marinette is used to the fantastic and the impossible; she inks them on people’s skin everyday and watches them spark to life as soulmates come to find each other. </p><p>An inevitable fate, one might call it. As if there isn’t a choice. </p><p>Such circumstance is more a stubborn inconvenience to someone who believes otherwise. Marinette makes it a habit of defying the impossible as often as she can, even in the face of the new boy at the flowershop who quietly enters her orbit and offers her uncharted gardens of stargazers and cosmos to discover and claim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lilacs, for the start of something new

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paperskirts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperskirts/gifts).



> A (early!) birthday gift to the ever lovely and incredible [paperskirts](http://paperskirts.tumblr.com/)! You are the dearest gem, and I hope you enjoy this thing that I've been cooking up!
> 
> Cover art done by the amazingly talented and wonderful [jesuisunjardin](http://jesuisunjardin.tumblr.com/)! Seriously, go commission her pronto asap; her art is otherwordly!

 

 

Morning rolls in with a quiet purr of thunder and the friendly chatter of rain. Wind whistles in passing as it stretches comfortably along empty streets and chases the echoes of footsteps retreating indoors.

Like a game, the rain taps on the colourful umbrellas of people hurrying to work, calling out, “Over here, over here, over here.” Wind winds around until it can nip at the edges of raincoats and the tips of hats before blowing goodbye kisses against people’s cheeks as they hurry into the shelter of buildings and metros.

Raindrops roll off of umbrellas and awnings in sparkling curtains, blurring the outlines of stark iron gates and chiseled stone faces of buildings. The world turns to quiet silver.

And everywhere, the colours soften, and soften, and soften.

The sharp _snap_ of a pink umbrella opening as its bearer rushes out of a metro station punctuates the monochrome of the street. Wind hardly has time to register a flurry of bright red before it’s already halfway down the street, blue rain boots splashing through puddles and sending water flying back up.

A bag thumps the time by Marinette’s side, urging her to hurry, run, _go_.

“Oh god, sorry, I'm late, I'm late-” Marinette moans into the phone jammed between her cheek and shoulder as she juggles her umbrella and a cup of coffee in her hands.

“-for a very important date,” Alya finishes on the other end. “ _Me_. Also Rose. Lucky for her, I am excellent company.”

Marinette’s laugh puffs into the air, mingling with the steam of her coffee before dissipating against the roof of her umbrella. Rain patters down, a noisy and nosy eavesdropper. “She's not paying for the pleasure of your conversation, otherwise we're going to need to talk about what kind of business we're running here.”

“If we're going to get technical about this,” Alya retorts good-naturedly, “ _you_ are the one paying me to talk to everyone and to schedule them in on time-”

“-hey now, let's not forget how you're benefiting from this too-”

“-and by the way,” Alya interrupts, letting a pause bubble up between them before continuing, “judging from the sound of traffic around you, I'd say you're along Avenue Rapp. Which means...”

The groan that croaks from Marinette is pretty appropriate for her sodden surroundings. If only she could adopt the more useful skill of leapfrogging so she could cut her travel time in half by sailing over buildings.

“The bouquet I need to pick up for Maman,” Marinette says, remembering. The slick street nearly slips her up as she dashes across, and the signpost nearly takes her out as she stumbles over the curb. Two streets diverge from her feet, and her umbrella swivels as she flutters indecisively from one route to the other. To run her errand? Or to run to work?

Ever the voice of reason, Alya sweeps in and saves the day with stunning logic. “Get the flowers now. You won’t have time later, even if Nathanaël and Juleka will keep the shop open longer for you. But you don’t want to be _that_ person.”

Marinette takes a step towards the left, then falters. “What about Rose?”

“Don’t worry,” Alya says. “You know this isn’t Rose’s first tattoo from you. She knows how you work.”

“You mean how I’m _late_?”

“Yeah,” Alya sighs in fond exasperation, the sound layered with Rose’s distinctive laugh. “That too. Get going girl. We’ll see you soon.”

“In a flash,” Marinette promises before hanging up. Armed with Alya’s assurance, something that Marinette always knows she can trust, she commits to her destination and starts off down the road.

Her cup of coffee steams gently in her hands, a ward against the mild chill. Despite the skein of wind and the heavy drumming of rain that discourage any lingering, Marinette finds herself slowing down as she splashes across the pavement. _Don’t slip_ , her rubber boots caution as they carefully pick their way through puddles. _Don’t forget to see_ , her umbrella urges as it tilts up to offer an unimpeded view of the street.

Rain can only do so much to blur the distinctive curvilinear architecture and undulating facades wrought with flourishing decor along Avenue Rapp. Like a world from another time, iron flowers curl around stained glass doors and windows that still sparkle from rain refracted light. Ceramic and stone sculptures peer over balconies, carved into fantastical beasts. Even the smallest details are accounted for, with vines and lizards and dragonflies curving out to offer themselves as door handles.

This part of Paris is old, fairytale old. Her father used to hoist her on his broad shoulders to get a better look at the dragons, the arum lily motifs, the glass butterfly wings. They’d make games of it, seeing who could spot the most flowering vines, who could point out the innumerable animals.

“Good enough to be edible,” Tom would laugh. They’d head back home after then and shape sugar fondant into lilies and magnolias, pipe icing into curling vines and slender leaves, bake little cakes into dragonflies and ladybugs.

Childhood tasted like the fantastical, the imaginative baked into the mundane.

Her mother used to stop and point out the details, the intricate patterns of concentric circles, of variegating archways, of uncoiling curves.

“Nothing is straight,” Sabine would say, and her smile would colour with nostalgia. “In China, everything strives for the circle, for wholeness and completion. Our calligraphy, our architecture, our music, our language, everything is built on curves. Look how it can be both beautiful and functional.”

Marinette took piano lessons for a brief time, long ago. There isn’t much she remembers from it now other than a passable rendition of chopsticks, but there was the foundation of chords that she can still recall. How one note played in quick succession or in conjunction with others could build chords, that could construct harmonies, that could compose songs. All from one note, singular and ringing.

If that kind of music had a form, Marinette imagines it would be in the circles and patterns her mother loves. There is a cadence to the architecture, a lilt to the design that begs to move.

And they did, under Sabine’s hand when she ran the tattoo parlour that everyone would come to. Her tattoo gun would sing and the images she imparted on others would dance. It’s a legacy that Marinette does her best to continue.

Adulthood sometimes feels like the impossible, the slow inking of discoveries yet to be made.

The familiar buildings watch Marinette now as she sinks deeper into their domain. Colourful in sunlight, rain does nothing to diminish the warm glow that lights glass doors and windows with a gentle gaze. Dark, shining iron railings beckon, inviting her to take shelter under their hoods. Though tempted, Marinette doesn’t stop until the shop she is searching for comes into view.

If the rest of the stores are quiet spectators resting in their own orbit, the _Catmint Print_ is a force strong enough warrant its own gravitational pull.

A membrane of clear glass held together by the cat's cradle of slender, strong iron proudly bares the riotous starburst of greenery confined inside. Flowers in all sorts of colours and sizes constellate throughout, their faces crowding up against the windows to peer out at anyone walking past. Clusters of lights shine from the ceiling, running edges of gold light along everything it touches.

The doors are set in a step from the face front. As Marinette tucks herself into the recess and snaps her umbrella shut, shaking off excess rainwater, she thinks it’s deliberately designed that way. Before she even walks in, the flowers waiting to be examined, admired, and claimed welcome her eagerly from all sides.  

It’s a funny sort of space. Marinette never knows whether it’s her or the flowers that are the ones on display.

Still, the moment she steps into the flower shop, it feels a little like coming home. There is something about the enveloping warmth and the organized chaos of all the blooms set up on display that reminds her of her parents’ boulangerie-pâtisserie, with all sorts of enticing sights and smells to discover.

 _Maybe taste too_ , Marinette thinks as she eyes clusters of lilacs, irises, and forsythia. Their jewel bright colours are rich enough to be mouthwatering, and she has to remind herself that no matter how well Juleka and Nathanaël know her, finding her mid-bite on a flowerbud would only make it awkward for everyone involved.

Two large folding screens split the enormous interior of the store in half, politely covering the back from curious eyes. Since Juleka’s dark figure and Nathanaël’s distinctive flaming red hair are nowhere to be seen on this side of the store, Marinette stills and listens until she hears movement from behind the screen.

“Nathanaël? Juleka?” she calls out, fumbling with tucking her umbrella under her arm and not splashing her coffee on her sleeve. “Hey, I’m here to pick up that bouquet for Maman!”

“Sorry, be with you in a moment!” A voice sails back from the back.

“It’s ok, I’m not really in a hurry to go back out in that rain,” Marinette says, leaning around a large bucket of gladioli to witness the skies empty thunderously down onto the street. “It’s crazy out there.”

“Like cats and dogs out there,” the voice agrees, except… there is something about the tonation that seems a shade different. Too cheerful to be Juleka, and just a pitch too deep to properly match Nathanaël.

“Pretty easy weather to get sick in,” Marinette says, and she frowns as she watches the blurry shadow of the hidden figure shift behind the screen. “If you aren’t feeling well Nathanaël, you should go home. I’m probably the only one crazy enough to fight through this weather to come by.”

“Well,” the voice laughs a little self-consciously. The shadow moves right up to the divide between screens, close enough for the silhouette to find distinct definition, before the two screen unfold back like a pair of wings. “I’m not Nathanaël, but I can pass the message along.”

For a dizzying moment, Marinette wonders dumbly if she really did swallow a flowerbud on the way in. There isn't any other explanation for the blooming that erupts within her stomach and soars up to weave through her ribcage and plant in her throat, aching to come out to see the sun.

The man in front of her might as well _be_ the sun, for all that the light crowns his blond hair in a halo of gold, for all that the rich greenery around them concentrates into the intense colour of his eyes. Even dressed simply in an apron the colour of marigolds, tan slacks, and a lilac shirt all smudged liberally with dirt, he stands as tall and graceful as any of the flowers around them.

 _Well that’s not fair_ , Marinette thinks as she becomes hyper aware of the rainwater dripping off her raincoat and pooling around her rain boots onto the wood floor. With coffee still steaming from the beaten cup in her hands and her short cropped hair blown into a cloud by the wind, she has a feeling she must look like a storm in comparison. _Not fair at all._

“You must be Marinette.” The stranger smiles politely at her, a perfect crescent on his perfect face, and _that_ is unfair as well.

“Do I know you?” she asks, tilting her head. He’d be hard to forget, but as she considers him, the strangest sensation of déjà vu nudges against her shoulder blades, telling her to take a closer look. “I feel like I must know you.”

The smile that curves on his face quirks up on a side, as if enjoying a secret joke. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you did.”

“You’ll have to refresh my memory then because I’m afraid I don’t remember,” Marinette says, shrugging apologetically. She takes a step forward, thrusts her hand out, and tilts her chin up to confidently match his gaze. “I’m Marinette.”

Laughter sparks in his eyes as he reaches out to take her hand. It’s less a modern handshake and more a gentle clasp of her fingers within his, a gesture from another era.

“I think I remember,” he teases.  

“Right,” she backpedals to save face, the absolute epitome of grace and composure. “Great. Yes.”

“Nathanaël told me you would be coming in, so I kept the shop open for you,” he explains, gently letting go of her hand. Marinette fights the urge to flex her fingers and consider the tingles undulating through her skin.

“Was the shop supposed to be closed today?” she asks, wracking her brain for any indication in prior conversations with Nathanaël or Juleka that she might’ve missed.

“It was kind of a spur of the moment decision,” he chuckles, his hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck self-consciously. “But it’s no trouble. You’re here already, anyway. Speaking of…”

He ducks back behind the parted screen doors, the movement quick enough for Marinette to wonder if he might be running from her. Like instinct, she moves to follow him to the back.

The space must have been a part of the front display, or even a small greenhouse at some point, Marinette notes. The arrangement of the tables and shelves, even the small fountain set into the floor in the corner are pretty telling of a past lifetime despite the overflow of equipment and stock that claim the space as storage instead.

“This bouquet, right?” His voice draws her attention over to a table piled with ribbons and paper wrappings. A careful composition of delicate bluebells, bright azaleas, and rosy peonies rest in the cradle of his arms as he turns to face her. “I think Juleka put this one together for you.”

“Yeah, she definitely did,” Marinette laughs as she steps up to pluck a small card out of the wrapper. _Rose_ is the only word scrawled across the front, and Marinette is careful to tuck the card into her bag for safekeeping. “We have a system. I ferry letters, and she helps me figure out what the flowers I need to get mean. I'm pretty hopeless at remembering all the symbolism, except for peonies. They’ve always been a favourite for me and Maman.”

“They’re beautiful,” he says. His head tilts down to examine the large open gazes of the peonies peering back up in his arms. “I don’t really know if I have a favourite flower.”

“Well, you are in a flower shop,” Marinette points out. “You’ll probably find something you like the most around here.”

He looks up at her then, and the smile that lights his face shines clear through his eyes.

“Maybe I will,” he concedes.

The low rumbling of the sky rolls through the store, as much a reminder of the rain still falling outside as it is a prompt for her to get going. On cue, her phone goes off with a bright chirp alerting her to an incoming text. Even without looking, Marinette knows it’s from Alya.

Without missing a beat, he gestures with the bouquet in his arms. “Juleka said you paid for these already too?”

“Yeah, when I ordered them,” Marinette confirms. “I could find the receipt if you want to see it?”

“It’s ok,” he chuckles, moving to walk past her and through the open folding screens. “I trust you.”

As Marinette follows him back to the front, she’s not sure whether she wants to laugh or cringe when she spots the puddles of water from her raingear staining the wood floor, a lingering map marking where she’s been. But like a series of stepping stones, they take the path back to the front door where her pink umbrella patiently waits.

“Here, I think this might be yours.” He offers the bouquet to her with quiet reserve and a teasing grin.

“If you insist,” Marinette shoots right back with a quicksilver smile.

She pays for her smoothness in the next second as her coffee cup bumps up against the swell of the wrapped flowers and tips back, finally accomplishing what she valiantly tried to prevent the entire morning. Lukewarm coffee sloshes through the small hole at the top in freedom and comes down upon her bare hand in a triumphant splash. The yelp that startles out of her is more out of surprise than pain, though her wrist still lifts in an instant so her tongue can nurse the abused skin.

“Are you ok?” The bouquet lifts to the side immediately, leaving Marinette entirely too close to green eyes peering at her in concern.

“Mmmpphhh,” she mumbles in reply, her words squashed up against the back of her hand. A trickle escapes her attentions and makes a dash for her arm. Not to be outdone, her teeth yanks her sleeve down, baring the offending trail of coffee running over the cluster of dark pink peonies tattooed along her wrist.

The intricate detailing of all the petals would make for a pretty good maze if the coffee got that far, but Marinette seeks and strikes, clamping her mouth down over her wrist and cleaning herself free of coffee spillage.

Belatedly, she realizes that “Mmmpphhh” might not actually serve as an adequate response. Her head lifts to assure him that she’s alright but his wondering gaze at her tattoo leaves the words stuck at the back of her throat. The bloom in her stomach breathes open a little bigger.

“I…” he starts, then falters. A myriad of questions seem to pass through his eyes, but they stay tucked within him. “Are you hurt at all?”

“I’m just clumsy,” Marinette admits with a flustered laugh. She tightens the lid of her coffee cup more securely and tugs her sleeve down, wondering at the way his eyes linger where her tattoos lie.

“Maybe you’re just lucky,” he laughs in relief.

The bouquet passes into her arms without further incident, enacting a careful and delicate process of hugging the blooms against her chest with her cup held in one hand. By the time her other hand is free and stable to grab her umbrella, it’s whisked away from right under her nose.

Her protests aren’t nearly as quick as the way he opens the door and steps out into the small recess to unfurl the umbrella against the rain drumming steadily down. As she walks out and accepts the offered curve of the umbrella handle in her free hand, a startling thought gives her pause.

“You never gave me your name,” Marinette calls him out, her gaze pointed at him in playful accusation.

“Oh.” His cheeks colour rapidly in embarrassment, bright against the quiet blue of the rain. “I’m Adrien.”

“Thanks for all your help, Adrien,” Marinette smiles as she takes her umbrella from him. “Maybe the next time I come by, you’ll let me know what your favourite flower is.”

“I’ll be ready for you, then,” Adrien laughs, the sound as warm as the flower shop that glows gold behind them.

It’s a sight that Marinette keeps tucked up close with her amongst the blooms of peonies and azaleas and bluebells as she ducks out into the rainy street. A quick glance back shows Adrien waving at her before retreating back behind the glass doors of the flower shop and flipping over a sign bearing the words “CLOSED” to the public.

Marinette would never be able to recall how she made it to her tattoo parlour without accident. The inquisitive tapping of rain against her pink umbrella continuously reminds her _A-dri-en, A-dri-en, A-dri-en_ , playing a tune for her to become enveloped within.

When the warm wood and glass front of _Luck be A Lady,_ slicked silver by the rain, comes into view, Marinette’s feet carry her inside while her mind trails far, far back.

“Marinette! We were starting to wonder if we lost you in a great flood or something.” Alya’s voice punctures through Marinette’s thoughts, bringing her back to the present. As Ayla helps relieve Marinette of her many belongings, beginning with plucking the coffee cup out of Marinette’s hand, she frowns at the lack of response.

“Did something happen out there?”

“Something,” Marinette murmurs as fingers trace the cluster of peonies tattooed on her wrist, her touch light as a gaze. “Maybe a little more like someone.”

 

* * *

 

“Someone?” Nino repeats, eyebrows waggling as he leans against the table piled high with flowerpots. Adrien bustles around him, systematically cleaning and clearing the back space in slow increments.

“I thought you were here to drag me away to dinner, not to gossip?” Adrien pokes Nino with a roll of wrapping paper, snorting as Nino easily bats it away.

“I’m multi-tasking, since you're taking your sweet time,” Nino retorts. “Well?”

“Well what? She was nice, it was nice to meet nice people.”

“You won’t be the new kid in town forever,” Nino assures him. “I’ll get some people to help us clear this space out later this week if you tell me what’s on your mind. There’s clearly something about her that’s got your head way somewhere else.”

Years of close friendship has the delightful and dismaying effect of eroding any semblance of opaqueness between them. Not for the first time, Adrien appreciates that Nino cares enough to see, to ask, and to listen.

In this matter though, Nino might not understand; but honestly, Adrien’s not sure he does either.

“The strangest thing?” Adrien laughs a little wondrously. “For a moment, I believed her mouth bloomed a flower right on her skin.”

After a moment, he adds quietly, thoughtfully, “I wondered then if I could do that too.”


	2. Queen Anne's Lace, for the haven of home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm 10 days early but STILL, happy (early) birthday darling [paperskirts!](http://paperskirts.tumblr.com/) ♥

“Alright Tikki, let's work some magic.”

The tattoo gun hums agreeably in Marinette’s hands. The needle tips dip into a well of green ink and rise to pause, poised over Mylène’s marked arm.

There is always that split second of calculation, the tracing of paths in revolution and collision leading to inevitable formation. Simple single-colour tattoos align straightforwardly, where coloured tattoos make for a more nebulous process; but Marinette has done this long enough to be a masterful creator.

Her own deep pink peony tattoos gleam red in the light as her wrist angles, the tattoo gun comes down, and she begins.

Tikki chatters away as Marinette carefully works circles of green ink into Mylène’s arm, pausing every now and then to let Marinette wipe away excess ink and blood. The clear image transfer on Mylène’s skin provides a map for Marinette to follow, and Tikki skillfully imparts her mark in each place Marinette directs her to.

“Shilin Stone Forest,” Marinette comments as she rinses Tikki’s needle tips in a cup of clean water. Green washes out before Marinette dips Tikki into a small cup of cool blue ink. “Does it really look like this?”

 _This_ being silhouettes of tall, slender rock formations rising like stark monoliths above soft, lush clouds of green treetops. _This_ being less forest and more maze, less talk and more echo. _This_ being a world far away from anything Marinette’s ever known.

“Bigger,” Mylène replies evenly as Marinette comes down unto her skin again to start inking shadows. “Taller. A little overwhelming. The stone just _felt_ old when you touched it.”

It's hard to imagine the sense of scale when the stone trees Marinette inks are as tall as her index finger. They march around the circumference of Mylène’s bicep, forming a panoramic bracelet of the landscape.

“Old shouldn't really be something new,” Marinette says as she repositions Mylène’s arm to tattoo the underside. Though Mylène keeps her muscles relaxed and motionless, Marinette still catches the slight grimace of pain flickering across her face when Tikki bites back into her skin. To keep Mylène’s mind off the stinging of the needles, Marinette continues, “Paris is pretty old too, and you've walked these streets hundreds of times.”

The distraction works as Mylène bites her lip in thought. Her head turns absentmindedly as her gaze drifts to watch Marinette sculpt form with colour and shadow on her skin.

“Maybe old isn't the right word,” Mylène muses. “Ancient, might be better. If the place wasn’t so tranquil, I would’ve been pretty frightened. Even Ivan was kind of uneasy. It felt like… like it was haunted, almost. There was always something more we couldn’t see but we could tell was there.”

“The tour guide couldn’t tell you what it was?” Marinette jokes.

“He didn’t know French, and none of Papa’s troupe knew Chinese or English to translate,” Mylène sighs ruefully. She watches Tikki etch out another stone tree before looking away. Her coloured curls slide down to obscure her face, creating a curtain shielding her gaze from the ink being stitched into her arm. “The most I understood was to not stray off the path.”

“Let me guess: Ivan didn't get the memo,” Marinette guesses as she redips Tikki into the cup of blue ink.

“He's so big! You think he'd be pretty easy to find, even in a place like that,” Mylène laughs. “I can't say anything though. We both ended up getting lost.” The memory has her cringing in bashful embarrassment, though she softens when Tikki’s humming soothes over the thought.

“That must've been scary,” Marinette remarks as Tikki’s needles crest over a stone peak. The small image offers no indication at how frightening it must've been to have become lost within its depths. Fear would not have been Marinette’s first reaction; fear would not have been allowed sanction within her at all unless every possible solution in her creative arsenal had been exhausted to no effect.

But Mylène isn't Marinette.

“It was,” Mylène admits freely, easily. “I was pretty scared.”

“Did Ivan or anyone else end up finding you?” Marinette asks as she defines the last shadow. She rinses Tikki in clean water to wash out the blue before saturating the needle tips in a red cool enough to border on purple. Without missing a beat, she starts blending along blue watercolour edges, working the colours so they melted down and softened into each other.

“I found _him_.” Mylène practically glows with the twist in her tale. “I felt like such a mouse, running in between these massive stone trees. It’s not hard to feel small in a place of giants.”

“Being small has its advantages,” Marinette points out with a knowing grin. 

“Well, sort of. Do you know how many hidey holes and little caves that get formed in a place that big, in a place that old? It's just endless.”

“Oh boy, tell me about it,” Marinette encourages. Tikki hums steadily on, leaving swaths of coloured ink in her wake.

“Ivan was actually stuck in an archway when I found him,” Mylène laughs. “Don't tell him I told you that; he's still embarrassed by it.”

Envisioning giant and imposing Ivan as embarrassed is a difficult feat of the imagination even for someone as practiced as Marinette; picturing him wedged between a stone archway is comparatively much easier.

“I don't know who'd believe me anyway,” Marinette says as she turns Mylène’s arm over again. Tikki sinks into the soft underside once more. “I'm pretty sure you're the only one who sees this side of him.”

“I think I'm the only one who's ever seen him that scared too,” Mylène says. She pauses for a moment, letting Tikki take over the conversation with the chatter of her needles. Her head tilts suddenly, as if weighed by a thought. “You know me, Marinette. I've never really been the bravest or strongest person. But when I found Ivan, when I was with him again…”

The unfinished sentence has Tikki pausing, has Marinette looking up to Mylène in complete attention.

“...I wasn't scared anymore,” Mylène says. “And that was very big to me.”

“Well,” Marinette breathes after a moment. She scoops a dollop of Vaseline with a gloved finger and rubs it onto the partially coloured tattoo in a gesture that's as much practical as it is comforting. The jelly soothes over the irritated skin and brings out the bright and clear gleam of the colours. “No wonder you want to add that place to your tattoo collection.”

“Ivan says it's kind of ironic, that these moments become small enough for me to carry around,” Mylène says. Her free arm lifts up, letting the bright overhead lights wash over the three tattooed bracelets ringed around her forearm.

Marinette knows them as well as the day she inked them into Mylène’s skin. No tattoo escapes her memory in spite of the hundreds, maybe even thousands she's given over the years.

This part is easy. The artistry and the creativity, those are traits Marinette inherited from both her parents and cultivated with pride. Her hands fit and wield Tikki perfectly, masterfully, like she'd been born to stitch and weave threads of colour together into tapestries for others to wear.  

“What do you think will happen this time? I mean, when he touches this tattoo? Which you’re totally ok on passing this question if it makes you uncomfortable,” Marinette asks, then fumbles over as she dips Tikki into a cup of red ink.

“You’ve given both of us all our tattoos and helped us find each other.” Mylène smiles kindly. “Uncomfortable is the last emotion I think I could feel with you.”

“Glad you think so for the moment at least,” Marinette chuckles nervously as she colours the rest of the stone faces in.

Mylène’s gaze is almost a palpable touch as she considers her new tattoo for a moment. “Maybe the trees will go through different seasons? Or maybe moss will start growing on the stone? Maybe both. I can never tell if the reaction will be a drastic one or not, it’s always a surprise.”

The grin Marinette gives Mylène strings up tightly at the corners. Despite the multitude of tattoos Marinette’s given, despite knowing exactly what kind of culture and business she was getting into when she took over _Luck be A Lady_ , this part is still uncomfortably foreign to her. Her own cluster of tattooed peonies gleam from her wrist, the only such mark on her body.

“Right. A surprise,” Marinette mutters as she works Tikki into colouring the last patch. “As much as a surprise as one could get from your soulmate anyway.”

The first time she saw Ivan’s heavy fingers brush against one of the vivid tattoos etched onto the pale translucence of Mylène’s skin, it had been a sight as breathtaking as it was painfully intimate. The band of stars had ruptured into fireworks, raining glittering gold upon the silhouetted cityscape of Paris against the deep blue of the night. For such a small tattoo, the reaction had been stunningly explosive.

The stars only glimmer and twinkle faintly now, a pulsing of potential energy that will come undone for only one.

Marinette hasn’t seen how the other places tattooed in rings around Mylène’s arms react to Ivan’s touch; but in the end, that is only for them to know.

“If you still want to know, I can tell you when I come in for a checkup,” Mylène offers.

“You’re sweet,” Marinette sighs, an answer and yet not an answer at all, and leaves it at that.

With the final portion of the landscape coloured, she steps off the pedal of the tattoo machine and waits for Tikki to fall silent and motionless before setting her aside. Despite the number of times Marinette’s done this, she still takes her time wiping excess ink and blood thoroughly away before rubbing over the new tattoo with ointment, preparing the fruits of her labour for final judgement.

At Marinette’s nod, Mylène slides off the chair and walks over to the floor length mirror tucked in the corner.

“Oh, Marinette,” Mylène breathes. “Just when I think you can’t get any better, you always outdo yourself.”

One of Mylène’s most endearing qualities is that she is unabashedly expressive in her happiness; her voice alone carries the full, round weight of her delight. Still, Marinette pauses from disassembling the tubes and needles from Tikki to properly dispose of to look up and catch Mylène gingerly turning her arm to examine the band of soft green treetops and the stone trees jutting up like sentries marched around her bicep. Pleasure makes Mylène’s round cheeks and hazel eyes glow bright.

“It looks good on you. You gave me the perfect set of pictures to make a stencil out of,” Marinette acknowledges as she rolls the needles in a red bin labeled for sharp objects and gathers the cups of ink, the disposable tubes, and paper towels to dump in the trash bin. Her latex gloves snap off before she rummages around her cabinet for a camera.

Used to the procedure, Mylène offers her arm with a huge smile, holding still as Marinette snaps photos all around her arm. Even though the point of the pictures is to capture just the tattoo, just her work, Marinette can’t resist sneaking a portrait complete with Mylène’s glowing grin.

“Perfect,” Marinette announces as she scrolls through the pictures quickly. The camera disappears into the cabinet once more before Marinette snaps on a fresh pair of latex gloves, gesturing to the seat. “Let me bandage this up.”

Mylène plants her butt comfortably in the chair once more, patiently offering her arm for Marinette.

“You,” Marinette starts, “know,” another wipe down with ointment, “what,” the unfurling of non-stick plastic wrap. “When you do find how what happens with this tattoo when Ivan touches it, tell Alya. You know her, the more she can figure out how all this soulmate stuff happens, the happier she is.”

“Is she still running the Ladyblog?” Mylène asks, swaying in the chair as Marinette tugs and wraps the bandage around the tattoo.

“Yup. I don’t know if you’ve checked it since you’ve been back, but she added a forum where people can go and share what their tattoos do when ‘The One’ touches them.” That was _not_ condescension that leaked into her voice just now. “She’s done some serious encryption to protect user confidentiality if you’re not comfortable sharing your name or identity. Don’t call it an obsession where she can hear you though,” Marinette warns. “That girl means business.”

“I’m glad,” Mylène laughs. “I’m ok letting you and Alya know what happens but otherwise I kind of like to keep this between me and Ivan. I’ll check the new forum out though, it sounds fun.”

“A happier place than the support group for people with tattoo and love life issues,” Marinette agrees. “It was nice of Alya to set that one up too though. Ok, you’re all set, Alya will help you pay out, and you know all the aftercare stuff as well as I do at this point.”

“Maybe you could pay me to give the spiel to new customers instead then,” Mylène jokes, sliding off the chair and gathering up her bag and coat.

“Not that tired of doing the talk just yet,” Marinette laughs, punctuating with a wink as Mylène heads out the door to the front area. The door wafts open in her wake, spilling in waves of laughter and the distinctive voice of Kim issuing a challenge likely as ridiculous as much as impractical.

Knowing that Alya is more than a match for Kim and whoever else is hanging around out there, Marinette takes her time disinfecting the machinery of Tikki’s body before putting her into the autoclave. The counters and the chair gets a thorough and meticulous wipe-down, an exacting routine that Sabine impressed upon her very early on, before the gloves roll off and are thrown out. She washes her hands and gives the space a once-over, mentally checking to ensure everything is cleaned, spotless, and ready for the next customer, before diving into the fray outside.

The familiar wood and glass walls decorated with pictures of everyone who has gotten a tattoo at _Luck be A Lady_ greet her, a space as much a home to her as her parents’ boulangerie-pâtisserie. Large, comfortable couches covered liberally with pillows circle the room, with low coffee tables bearing books full of tattoo ideas and designs seated in front of them.

Alya tap-tap-taps her fingers against the front counter, her hazel eyes glittering sharply in observation as Marinette joins her. Before them stands everyone else in various stages of undress.

Just another normal day.

“Bite me,” Alix snarls as she shoves her sweatpants down, baring black spandex shorts. Her crop top already lies in a crumpled heap by her feet, leaving her torso clothed in only her sports bra.

“You wish,” Kim barks as he yanks the collar of his shirt over his head to toss onto the floor. He pivots on the spot to display his bare back, smugly flexing his muscles.

“I have nothing to prove to you guys,” Nino declares as he slings his sweatshirt over his shoulder. He backs up and plops back into a couch, sinking into the soft cushions. “I’ll be the judge though.”

“I’m guessing Mylène didn’t want to stick around for this?” Marinette asks Alya in a low voice, not wanting to interfere with whatever was going down in front of them.

“She came here for a tattoo, not a show,” Alya cackles. “Too bad, this is the most entertaining thing that’s happened all day. Though Mylène did tell me something very interesting as she was paying.”

“Hmm?” Marinette hums absent-mindedly.  

“You asked about Ivan touching the tattoo you just gave her.”

Like an unexpected sting, Marinette snatches her wrist up, pressing her fingers into her pink peonies hard enough to leave starbursts of white spots dappled across her skin.  

“C’mon Al, you know me,” Marinette murmurs. “Just because I ask the questions doesn’t always mean I want to hear the answer.”

No rebuttal or lecture comes from Alya in the wake of her admission, only an understanding hug around the shoulders. Following age old habit, Marinette snakes an arm around Alya’s waist and leans her head to rest against Alya’s fiery, curly mass of hair, as good as a pillow. As laced together as they are, their bare hands rest on clothed arms, clothed shoulders, clothed hips, the landmarks of safe zones.

There are some things Marinette would rather not know. Some absolutes she’d rather not be burdened with.

A low, appreciate whistle from Nino hooks both of their attention back to the spectacle in front of them. With the dramatic display of toned muscle from Alix and Kim both, it’s hard to tell whether they’re comparing who has the more impressive set of abs, or who has the more defined definition of back muscle, or who has the more spectacularly sculpted butt-

“You did a damn good job on those tattoos, Marinette,” Nino interrupts the posturing and enlightens the situation.

"Fucking _nailed_ them.” Alya’s declaration of agreement practically slams down with the ferocity of her pride. “But then, Mari’s always been the best at what she does.”

“You mean who she does?” Alix snaps in cheekily.

“Can’t help it if everyone wants me to do them,” Marinette shoots back sweetly, tossing her dark cloud of short hair back with theatrical flair. “I’d threaten to tattoo you over the boniest parts of your body, but I’m pretty sure your pain tolerance has literally no limit.”

For how tiny Alix is, the totality of her tattoos map around the circumference of her body in continents segmented into sinuous, feathery wings. Boldly inked in sky blue and vibrant lilac, the tattoos curve up the swell of her calves and thighs, wrap around the narrow curve of her hips, creep across her killer abs, envelop the entirety of her strong shoulders, and rest pale blue feathers upon her neck like fingers.

As a star athlete involved in a myriad of sports, notably professional roller derby, Alix is no stranger to pain.

“Good,” Marinette had said when she saw the tattoo designs Alix wanted during consultation. “Because you’ll be looking at a whole world of it if you want to go through with all of these tattoos.”

“‘If’?” Alix repeated, rolling her eyes. “Don’t insult me, Marinette. I never do anything halfway.”

No one else could claim an intensive a tattoo as Alix; Marinette lost track of how many hours it took to ink every wing and every feather, but it had taken the better part of the week and the most amazing display of pain tolerance she had ever seen from anyone. Even the hours Tikki spent stitching over hip bones, shoulder blades, ankles, and collarbones, Alix never flinched and never cried. Her skin had wept in blood, but the numerous scars littered across her body already strikes the number of times she’s split herself open and patched herself up.

The results had been worth every second of painstaking work and endurance from them both; the multitude of wings that close around Alix’s body is more feral than ethereal, more electrifying than temperate. With her snappy blue eyes and shock of neon pink hair, she’s the personification of a force of nature.

Marinette imagines when Alix races, the speed of her flight sparks her into a bolt of lightning, merciless and absolute.

“You can’t touch me anywhere you already haven’t,” Alix agrees with a snicker. Her laugh crows out raucously when Kim rolls his eyes up.

“Dude, c’mon now,” he complains. “I don’t need to hear what you and Marinette do when you’re alone together.”

“You don’t need to hear about anything,” Alya interjects. “You can see it all over Alix’s body.”

On cue, Alix spins around to present her back to everyone present, lifting up her arms to flex impressively. The bright blue feathers on her back ripple with the shift in muscle, both a preen and a goad.

“Besides, it’s not like you’re so innocent from Mari’s hands either,” Nino laughs. “Your back has her marks all over it.”

“I can’t tell if I’m running a tattoo parlour or a harem,” Marinette mutters. “Does it technically still count if my hands are always gloved when I’m touching them?”

“Absolutely. Safety and consent first.” The confirmation comes far too fast to be truly serious, but Marinette bumps her hip against Alya anyway in retaliation, sending Alya careening into the counter and upsetting the vase of delicate Queen Anne’s Lace with the force of her laughter.

“Who wouldn’t want to touch this magnificence?” Kim says, smugly running a hand up his undercut to smooth his fingers through his styled mohawk.

In the wake of his hand trailing back down, an intricately detailed falcon follows in a nosedive, wings folded in flight along his skull with the head stretched down to angle over his neck. The falcon’s beak points down to the rest of the flock soaring down across the shoulder blades and spine. With sharp eyes, sleekly tipped feathers, and lethal talons inked up in solid black, they're dramatic, bold, and impossible to ignore.

It's not hard to understand why a group of falcons is called a cast considering the theatrical production that showcased through Kim’s expressions during his tattoo sessions. His most colourful faces appeared when Tikki delicately and painstakingly hummed over his skull for hours, carefully embroidering each detailed feather that composed the primary falcon.

Large feathers called for neat cross hatching and solid blocks of shading which had Marinette’s ears ringing and Kim’s head rattling for hours after. Tiny, fine feathers speckling the falcon’s neck and head called for endlessly repetitive stippling akin to “a thousand merciless pecks”, in the eloquent words of Kim.

Being a personal trainer meant he had a rich vocabulary stored in his arsenal, which he used liberally and with great feeling throughout the entire process. Some of his more bizarre terms of expression incorporating tidbits of Korean would punch out when Tikki had to travel over the bone, leaving Marinette wondering if she was causing more destruction than creation.

Well, Kim always did have the hardest head of anyone Marinette's ever known.

“Are you a personal trainer or a wannabe model?” Alix laughs as she rests a dainty foot against the thigh of his track pants. For one so small, Alix is nothing but pure muscle, proving so spectacularly as she delivers a mighty push that knocks Kim back onto the couch next to Nino.

The impact of Kim’s fall has Nino scrambling to the edge of the couch closest to Alya and Marinette to avoid Kim’s flailing limbs, but the look of alarm that crosses Nino’s face holds an edge of an extra thought as well. He turns expectantly, catching Marinette’s gaze, and opens his mouth to say something-

“Alright then, so who has the better and more badass tattoo?” Alix demands, taking advantage of Kim’s sudden incapacitation.

Drawn back to the whole debacle at hand, Nino swivels his head back to Kim and Alix.

“My vote’s for Alix,” Alya pipes up.

“Hey! My tattoos are over my _skull_ , not to mention down my _spine_. I think that immediately makes me the bigger badass.” Nothing reanimates Kim faster than the thought of losing a challenge.

“Ok,” Alya starts authoritatively, propping her head up with a hand and surveying Kim with dry amusement, “if you have to say you’re something, you’re not.”

“Played yourself sucker,” Alix snickers before whooping in victory.

“Bro?” The desperate last chance for redemption weighs in that single word, offered to Nino from Kim.

“I think Alya’s swiped the judging decision from me. I can’t save you here dude.”

Abandoned from all sides, Kim turns a hopeful gaze to Marinette.

The look on Marinette’s face informs that all that it’s a futile endeavour. “I am the least impartial observer in this room. Your tattoos are like my kids; I don’t play favourites.”

“Speaking of kids,” Alix drawls slowly, still basking in her win, “aren’t you supposed to meeting up with Chloé at the gym in like, five minutes?”

For one long beat, there’s only silence as Kim stares confusedly at the clock ticking away on the wall before realization shocks him onto his feet and propels him into a blur of motion. In one smooth motion, he swipes his shirt from the ground, shrugs it on, and vaults for the door.

“This isn’t over Kubdel,” he promises as he yanks the door open. “Next challenge, I’m totally winning.”

“In your dreams,” Alix hollers as Kim disappears into the world outside.

A second later, the door cracks open again for Kim to peek back. His free hand points back and forth between his eyes and Nino’s, the universal code for “I’m watching you”.

“Time,” Nino warns, but Kim is already gone.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’s a walking disaster,” Marinette sighs as she leans against the counter, toying idly with the tiny star clusters of the Queen Anne’s Lace.

“What makes you think he isn’t?” Alix snorts as she picks up her crop top and sweatpants and redresses herself. “By the way, do you have time to do a quick touch-up for me?” She thrusts her arm out, rolling to display the crease of her elbow where some of the ink has faded from wear and tear.

“Sure, I don’t have anyone else coming in today.” After a moment’s pause, Marinette’s head lolls to the side to look at Alya. “I don’t have anyone else coming in today, right?”

“Nope and nada,” Alya confirms a few clicks on the computer later. “You’re free as bird.”

“Come into my nest, then,” Marinette says dryly as she straightens up and motions for Alix to follow her to the studio room.

“You spend so much of your time here that this _is_ your nest at this point,” Alya says.

“Luck be a lady, Al,” Marinette points out before ducking into her studio. “Not a homing pigeon.”

Touch-ups usually don’t take long, and Marinette could go through the motions in her sleep. For something as small as the area around the crease of Alix’s elbow, that could be done in a flash, but Marinette still takes the time to snap a fresh pair of latex gloves on to wipe down the counter and chair with disinfect.

“Go ahead and take a seat,” Marinette tells Alix as she pulls the latex gloves off and washes her hands.

Sabine had drummed thoroughness into her marrow, and even for tiny jobs Marinette follows her mother’s teachings to the letter.

A new pair of gloves snaps on before she meticulously lays down a dentist bib onto the cleaned counter, a placemat for the tiny cup of bright blue ink she prepares next. Sterilized needles and disposable tubes pop free of their packaging as Marinette expertly loads Tikki up once more.

“Seriously?” Alix comments as Marinette pulls her gloves off yet again, washes her hands, and replaces them with a fresh pair. “Prep and cleanup time will take longer than the actual touching up at this rate.”

“You don’t mess around when it comes to puncturing holes into someone’s skin,” Marinette says, picking Tikki up. “I’d rather spend the extra time making sure everything’s clean and fresh than have you coming in a week from now suing my ass for an infected tattoo.”

“Still seems excessive,” Alix says as she lays her arm, palm up, on the chair’s armrest.

“You can take it up with my mother if you really want to argue it,” Marinette informs her as she dips Tikki’s needles into the well of bright blue ink.

“Too much effort,” Alix says as Marinette bends over the crease of her elbow and begins filling in the patches where the ink has faded away. Tikki’s humming fills the air, as steady and soothing as a lullaby. “Alya is probably someone who’d be willing to argue to the ends of the earth and back.”

“Oh, not probably,” Marinette laughs. “Most definitely.”

Unlike stitching onto a completely new canvas, remnants of Alix’s original tattoos still linger in the spots where the ink has faded, providing a familiar map for Marinette to follow. True to Alix’s prediction, Tikki finishes up the touch-ups within a few minutes, already taking much less time than it took for Marinette to prep.

“Don’t skip out on aftercare,” Marinette tells Alix as she wraps the area with a bandage. “If I can’t slack, you can’t either.”

“Yes, Coach,” Alix laughs as she hops off the chair. “Thanks for the touch-up. I’ll see you around.”

“Good luck on your match next weekend,” Marinette calls after Alix as she swings through the door. A small hand trails back, fingers waggling to her in acknowledgement before disappearing from sight entirely.

As Marinette slowly takes her time in thoroughly cleaning her station and disposing equipment and trash, Alya and Nino’s conversation filters back to her through the open door.

“Why don't you just bring him here? Everyone's always here anyway,” Alya says.

“I kind of thought, why not start small first?” The shrug that must have accompanied the response is almost tangible in Nino’s voice.

“Nino… Is he your dirty little secret?”

“Nothing stays secret for long around you babe.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

“Are you asking us to adopt a stray cat?” Marinette asks as she emerges from her closed studio space.

The light joke hardly warrants the guffaw that bursts out of Nino. His smile widens, the corners of his mouth pulling back with the weight of his own little joke in a gesture reminiscent to Adrien’s crooked grin from that silvery blue rainy day.

“Yeah,” Nino chuckles. “I guess you can say that.”

“Is he shy?” Alya presses relentlessly with her insatiable curiosity.

“Nah, but he can be a pretty private person,” Nino admits, running a hand over the top of his cap in thought. “Doesn't like a lot of attention. Kind of wary around cameras.”

“You make it sound like he has wanted posters up everywhere or something,” Marinette laughs, perching herself on the armrest of the couch. As an avid fan of too many murder-mystery drama shows, Alya brightens with interest at the suggestion.

Nino only rolls his head up to peer at Marinette from underneath the brim of his cap, his glasses framing the secret of his amusement sitting low and bright in his eyes.

“...You know, you're not that far off the mark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of [Mylène’s tattoos.](http://mmmatchaball.tumblr.com/post/134130498948)  
> [Alix's tattoos.](http://mmmatchaball.tumblr.com/post/145730120049/artissimo-alternative-beauty-by-hugo-richard)  
> Part of [Kim's tattoos.](http://mmmatchaball.tumblr.com/post/144877541830/rhubarbes-by-jo-in-hyuk)
> 
> And finally, [the post that started this whole idea](http://matchaball.tumblr.com/post/127711389549/spud-buster-lovethyhippie-imagine-having-a). You have no idea how long I've been wanting to write something for this tattoo idea ever since I came across that post almost a year ago. 
> 
> Dialogue has always been a weak spot for me, which is hilarious since the majority of this chapter turned out to be nothing _but_ dialogue. Irony sure likes to come back around when I least expect it. A lack of Adrien in this chapter sadly, but fear not! Next chapter is when the ball really gets rolling :) 
> 
> Thank you so much for your wonderful comments and tags from the last chapter! I endlessly adore and treasure each beautiful thought and word you leave! :')


	3. Anenomes, for the hope of something more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a stunning but unsurprising twist of irony, I missed [paperskirt's](http://paperskirts.tumblr.com/) birthday by a week and a day. First I was too early, now I'm too late haha. BUT STILL: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY DARLING DEAR, I love you endlessly ♥

“Agreste? _Adrien_ Agreste?” Alya repeats dryly.

Marinette swears she can see the sweat trickle down Nino’s neck, though he maintains an impressively neutral expression in the face of Alya’s impending detonation. His eyes dart over to Marinette, but she’s not about to offer him any sort of saving grace. 

“He never told me his last name,” Marinette admits; but like the missing page of a book, the blanks start to write themselves full, the sensations of déjà vu start to gain definition.

She _knew_ she'd seen him before. Those cheekbones don't lie.

“How long have you been friends with _him_?” Alya exclaims, jabbing her hand out to point accusingly at the massive poster spanning the greater area of the metro station wall. Black and white does nothing to lessen the intense gaze of Adrien staring back, eyes peering over the popped collar of his exquisitely tailored jacket with the distinctive embroidered butterfly of the Gabriel Agreste brand glittering on the underside.

“Since… A few years ago? That show I mixed for, the one in Florence. Since then.” As if he was discussing the weather and not his friendship with one of the most famous and illustrious figures of their generation, Nino leans against said poster with total nonchalance. He eyes Alya with equal parts wariness and amusement.

“That was _four_ years ago.” This time it's Marinette who puts Nino in the hot seat, pinning him down with frown. “I know you were touring for two years after but- four _years_ , Nino.”

“It just never came up and it never seemed important enough to mention; plus we didn't keep in contact too often until recently,” Nino shrugs them both off easily. His hands shove into his pockets, and the levity in his expression sharpens with an unusually hard edge. “He's just a person like anyone else, with the exception that his every step and move has been decided and scheduled for him since he could walk. You probably wouldn't even recognize him if he walked down the street. 

 _Or if you walked into a flower shop_ , Marinette recalls with dizzying clarity.

And Nino was right. Even with the name, the connection hadn't registered right away. Though it was no wonder Marinette couldn't immediately place him when she first saw him; she’d only ever seen Adrien cut with angled shadows, his expression wrought older and harder, his silhouette rendered sharp and untouchable. He seemed more symbol than person, more icon than human; ethereal in the way that only airbrushes and good lighting can achieve.

The ads of him scattered liberally throughout Paris- and the world- bear no resemblance to the person she had laughed and talked with that blue rainy day. That Adrien had shone soft with gentle courtesy and endearing humour, had painted himself alive with smears of dirt and a bright marigold apron. When the bundle of large pink blooms that rested in the cradle of his arms matched the flush on his cheeks and the sincerity of his smile, he ended up leaving a much longer, much stronger impression upon her in that one instance than any of the glossy magazine photos she'd been inundated with growing up.

He had not been an Agreste. He'd just simply been Adrien.

 _That had been the point_ , Marinette realizes as her frown softens into contemplation when she recalls how Adrien had introduced himself- and how he hadn't. _That had been_ his _point_ _._

“Well then what hell is he doing here instead of jetting off to who knows where?” Alya demands, casting a puzzled glance at the poster as the metro train pulls up on the tracks with a tired screech.

“Technically,” Nino starts, unfurling a mischievous, if somewhat sheepish grin at them, “you could say he’s always been here around us.”

The flat stare Alya levels at Nino would’ve terrified a lesser man. “If this whole thing is a prank, there is no place on this green earth that you can hide where I won’t find you.”

His only answer is to hop into a compartment, his laughter trailing behind him. Alya follows close on his heels, another question on her lips. Giggles fizz up in Marinette as well as she slips in after them right before the doors close, but it’s only the brave- or the foolish- who laughs in the face of Alya’s threats.

“No seriously, of all the things he could be doing in the world, why the heck is he working at a flower shop?” Alya persists, her eyes trained on Nino hawkishly even as the train jerks forward. Her hand snags a loop hanging from the ceiling, providing an anchor point to steady herself as her body sways in rhythm to the train’s current of motion.

“Just a change of pace, pretty much,” Nino admits as he sits back comfortably on a seat. His arm slings onto the back of the seat next to him as Marinette slides into the spot. “What he told me was kind of personal. Not even for you will I spill my guts.”

“Pity,” Alya sighs dramatically. There's no bite in her words, just understanding with a hint of disappointment for missing out on a scoop.

Her eyes cut over to Marinette, but she has nothing better to offer. “I think the only thing I learned about Adrien that one time was that he doesn’t have a favourite flower.”

“Guess you'll have to help him find one, huh?” Alya suggests cheekily, looming over Marinette with an intent gleam in her eyes.

“Please go easy on the guy,” Nino implores, his eyes trained on Alya. ”He just needs more friends around him than me and Chloé.”

“Ugh,” Marinette grunts as the train jerks to a stop and she lurches forward, a reaction appropriate for both the mention of Chloé and her lack of balance. On instinct, Nino grabs the back of her shirt and Alya steps forward to brace her. Nonplussed, Marinette clarifies, “Even you probably aren't enough to balance Chloé out, especially if what she says is true and she and Adrien really have been friends since childhood.”

The train starts forward again and Nino lets go as Marinette settles back, though Alya remains hovering protectively in front. It's futile to try convincing Alya that Marinette doesn't need the support; too many transit incidences have taught them both otherwise.

“It's true,” Nino confirms with a resigned sigh. “You should've seen the way she looked at me when Adrien first introduced us. You should've heard what she said to me when she asked me why I was friends with Adrien. She's a brat,” he concludes thoughtfully, “but she cares about Adrien. So I can live with that.”

“Her tattoos don't actually react to Adrien, do they?” Marinette asks curiously.

“I feel like I would not have been able to ask that about her and come out of it alive,” Nino replies dryly. “I can't tell where her bubble of personal space begins and ends.”

“Just ask Adrien,” Alya suggests. “Surely if his soul marks move for her than that should be answer enough.”

Neither girl misses the way Nino tenses and hesitates. His arm withdraws from the back of Marinette's seat to toy with the brim of his cap in a nervous fidget.

Like a shark scenting blood, Alya is on him in an instant. “They _don't_ , do they?” 

“It's… well, uh, let's just say that for this one thing, the tabloids actually get this right about him,” Nino gulps as Alya leans in closer, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at him. In contrast, Marinette crosses her legs and sits back, a bemused frown creasing her features. 

“Really?” Marinette asks a touch incredulously. “You mean it's true, that Adrien Agreste actually has _nothing_ on him?”

“Ask him yourself,” Nino suggests as the train announces their stop. In the shuffle to get off the train and out of the station, their conversation rolls to a pause.

As they rise out of the subway and out onto the sun-soaked street of Avenue Rapp with its glittering iron rails and sparkling stained glass windows, Marinette eyes Nino curiously, wondering what he might have up his sleeve. He whistles as he walks, the tune hanging light and clear as silver in the air, matching an amused sparkle in his eyes that he doesn't bother explaining.

“You know it's bad form to just straight up ask someone whether or not they have a tattoo,” Marinette points out. “Even though literally everyone has one.”

“You're a tattoo artist, a soul marker, and the best one in Paris. Doesn't that give you some kind of pass?” Nino asks.

“I'm not going to exploit what I do to poke at personal information like that,” Marinette says firmly even as curiosity tickles at the back of her throat and itches within her peonies shackled around her wrist. “Besides, asking someone about their lack of marks is a way more invasive question than asking what kind of tattoo they do have.”

Nino's glasses glint as he angles his head down to eye Marinette, his eyes soft in understanding as he watches Marinette unconsciously rub a hand against her arm bared by her black crop top. After a moment, her hands bury themselves in the pockets of her worn pink overalls, hiding her tattoo from sight.

Undaunted, Alya does what she does best and goes straight to the source. She marches right up to the distinctive door of the _Catmint Print_ with the ‘CLOSED’ sign displayed prominently behind the glass, and grabs the handle. As if sensing an opponent that should not be trifled with, the door swings open smoothly and easily before her hand, bowing out of the way to allow Alya to breeze right in. She moves in like a storm, barreling past buckets of violet asters and planters filled with vivid protea to arrow straight for a very bewildered and slightly alarmed florist shielded only by his marigold apron and a watering can.

Marinette and Nino trail in her wake, knowing better than to fall victim to her momentum as well. They halt to join the multitude of flowers in the shop as watchful spectators, their faces open with curiosity.

“Is it true?” Alya demands when she reaches her target. With Adrien looking no less confused, she continues, “You don't have a single tattoo on you right? You're as unmarked as the day you were born.” 

“Alya, oh my god,” Marinette sighs, burying her face in her hands.

“You can’t just ask someone why they don’t have a tattoo,” Nino reprimands her halfheartedly, knowing his words might as well be smoke for all that they affect her.

“Sure I've got marks,” Adrien answers easily, acquiescing to Alya much in the same manner as the flower shop door. A gleam enters his eyes as he innocently clarifies, “I’ve got a few scars on my arms from parkour, some bruises from bouldering, and yes- I do have a birthmark on my butt.”

Unimpressed, Alya challenges, “Proof or it’s not true.”

“Alright, no one needs to see Adrien mooning anyone.” Nino breaks in, moving until he could wedge himself between the two of them.

His intervention diverts their attention, but Marinette’s eyes rove beyond to drop down to Adrien’s hips where his apron strings reach back to likely knot in a neat bow above his-

Someone clears his throat and Marinette doesn’t even need to look up in green eyes to know she’s been caught.

She doesn’t know what’s more embarrassing: blatantly thinking about his ass or blatantly staring at his groin, apron-clad and all. Subtlety had never been her strong point. If one could combust from embarrassment, Marinette’s sure she would've died ages ago but this feels like appropriate grounds for an encore.

“Friends?” Adrien asks, his eyes never leaving Marinette’s even as her cheeks pink up brilliantly and a sheepish smile crawls across her face. The question is for Nino, though it sounds like a tentative greeting to Marinette as well.

“We come in peace,” Alya answers instead with a roll of her eyes. Her attention swings back to Nino in an instant. “You should know Nino, that the mark of a strong friendship is-”

“I don't think I want to hear the rest of that,” Nino groans.

“Don't all friends see each other's butts sooner or later?” Adrien innocently pipes up. He casts a subtle wink at Marinette, all lighthearted playfulness. Despite her mortification, she throws a crooked smile and a raised eyebrow back.

Nino stares at Adrien. “I don't even know why I thought you'd need help. I'm just gonna let you handle… this.”

Even as Nino steps back next to Marinette, Alya harrumphs, “If you're referring to me as something to be ‘handled’, I will kick your ass.”

“I can't win,” Nino sighs, throwing his hands up in the air.

This time Marinette does laugh, the sound teasing and warm as she bumps her hip against Nino’s in solidarity. Taking pity on Nino, she says to Adrien, “We're to help you with whatever it is Nino said you needed help with.” 

“If you’re here for the dirt,” Adrien laughs, his smile bared to Alya, “you’re in the right place.”

The watering can in his hand tips up and swings around as he turns, pointing the way to the seam between the two folding screens that yawn open into the darkened back. The chorus of flowers rooted in their pots and planters throughout the flower shop watch, still and silent, as they pass by to step into the back.

Something about the frank vulnerability in the dark center of their eyes, Marinette finds, is strangely unnerving. Her hands creep into the pockets of her overalls once more, finding solace in the crevices tucked against her body, and her eyes stare resolutely forward on Adrien’s backside as he leads them through the part in the screens.

 _He does have a cute butt_ , Marinette notes absently as she crosses the threshold, allowing cool shadows to drape across her shoulders. The apron ties knot across his lower back instead of tying up in a bow like she thought, leaving the long, trailing ends to swing in tandem with his walk like a tail.

The urge to tug at the strings is strong. Her fingers flex within their confines and root themselves firmly in place.

She’d definitely have a harder time explaining away that impulse than the irrational desire to eat a flowerbud.

Upon initial impression, nothing in the back area seems drastically changed since the last time Marinette remembers following Adrien to the back. Clutter still clots the space up into sections, leaving veins of open ground to carve through in small paths.The fountain in the corner still sits dusty and grey from neglect, and the table laden with wrapping paper, ribbons, wires, and tape still sits up against the screen, providing a horizon for the silhouettes of flowers on the other side to stand up from.

Second glance reveals the clutter to be wheelbarrows filled with young flowers brimming over the edge, and trays and troughs of potted plants crowded up on the ground. Tiny white stakes poke up from the greenery marked with specific names, matching larger signs that lie along borders of thick, blue tape dividing the area up. The rich scent of earth hangs heavy in the air, blanketing the unmade beds of dirt waiting to be filled.

The place is rather roughly puzzled together, but organized chaos is not a new sensation to Marinette. Growing up and helping out in a popular bakery and tattoo studio meant she was forever finding creative ways to be as efficient as possible.

Except any decisive action on her part is taken right out of her hands- or rather, placed directly into her palms- as Adrien passes her a small pot bursting with white anemone blooms.

“I feel like every time I see you, I’m giving you flowers,” Adrien laughs as he steps back and selects a pot of blazing scarlet lilies to hand to Alya. 

“I’m not complaining,” Marinette replies as she examines the small starbursts of white petals glowing bright between the dark of her hands. Inky blue eyes stare back up at her, wide and delicate and fragrant.

“This isn’t my usual kind of scoop,” Alya remarks dryly as she hoists her pot to a more comfortable position in her arms.

As Adrien selects several small pots of aromatic sage and hands them to Nino, he says cheerfully, “If you’re looking for fresh dirt, I’m afraid I haven’t botany recently.”

Marinette laughs over Alya’s mutter of “He did _not_ ” with, “You're going to soil your reputation of being a cool guy at this rate.” Her reply is tinder to the fire as Adrien completely lights up with delight.

“You're not cool,” Nino deadpans with complete authority. “And he's definitely not cool.” The pots in his arms shift, freeing a hand to ruffle through Adrien’s hair as he heads towards a wheelbarrow.

Without missing a beat, Alya follows Nino over. The lilies in her arms flutter their long crimson fingers gracefully to Adrien and Marinette in goodbye.

“Uh, I haven't-” Adrien starts, his hand rising up to grab Alya’s attention.

Greater forces have tried and failed to stop Alya; she sails beyond his reach with a simple, “Nino will tell me what to do. When you two have punned yourselves out, let me know.”

“You know I don't pun.” The retort is weak at best and Marinette knows exactly what Alya is trying to do. Looking up into Adrien’s eyes, she amends, “Not usually, anyway.”

His smile to her is a softer thing, the corners tugging back constantly like he wants to smile even wider at her. “Maybe you just need to be in the right company.”

“Seems like you're my only company now,” Marinette says, her own grin pulling up in a mirrored response. She doesn’t miss the way his eyes dip down to glance at her tattoos for just a moment, but it’s long enough for her to shift her hands restlessly around the white anemones spilling over the lip of her pot. “So- uhh, the back area looks. Nice. Better, I mean, than last time.” 

Something settles lightly on her shoulder. For a split second, she thinks it might be a butterfly; but it’s only Adrien’s fingers grazing lightly over the pink strap of her overalls.

“There’s a method to the madness,” he assures her, giving her a gentle squeeze before motioning for her to follow.

As he leads her closer to the white stakes and signs she noted earlier, jumbled words gain enough clarity and distinction for her to pick out sections labeled for snapdragons, lilies, milkweed, and catmint. Borders of tape try their best to contain the crowd of plants and budding flowers that populate every available space, and a few planters still manage to edge their way out.

“The plants were delivered the other day but the movers just put them anywhere they could.” Adrien crouches down, his long fingers reaching out to pluck a placard labeled ‘Anemone’ out of the dirt. “Once everything’s untangled, I can start planting them properly.”

The anemones in Marinette’s arms rustle as she crouches next to him and gently sets the pot down in the correct section. The thick, fragrant cloud of earth and flowers that perfume the air intensifies when closer to the ground; but this, too, feels a little like home.

“Ah, so that’s why Juleka and Nathanaël aren’t here,” Marinette teases. “You want free labour.”

“No!” The panic suffused in Adrien’s voice is matched only by the way he lurches forward, his hands coming up to gesticulate frantically. “That’s definitely not- Juleka and Nathanaël helped so much in clearing this area, and they’ve worked here for so long with me managing long distance, I thought they could use a way overdue break-”

“Kidding,” Marinette laughs, bumping her shoulder against his gently and interrupting his rambling. “Silly, what are friends for?”

Even though there are few lights in the back and the pale, watery fingers of sunlight from the covered back windows don’t quite reach where they are, warmth suffuses Adrien’s cheeks, brightens his eyes to a vivid, verdant green, softens the shadows and edges of his face.

He must know how to smile; life as a highly sought-after model and actor means he knows his best angles, knows how to best manipulate his features to achieve the most desired effect. In the dimness of the back area, Marinette had expected to find more of the Adrien she’d seen in ads and magazines, with the sharp cheekbones and practiced affectation of lofty nonchalance. She had thought, in the shadows she’d find a truer representation of the Adrien she had grown up seeing.

He is brighter, in the dark. There is nothing about his current sincerity that is staged, and everything about his genuine pleasure that radiates a simple kind of hope she didn’t expect to find in him.

And maybe that was the problem, Marinette realizes. He must be so used to people expecting him to be- something, or someone else, that being just himself must feel rather lonely.

“Can I ask you something?” she blurts out. Regret immediately presses in but too late, Adrien tilts his head and smiles encouragingly at her. She has feeling she could ask what colour underwear he was wearing and he’d happily answer her.

“Only if I can ask one in turn.”

“Right, ok.” Buying herself some time to gather up her courage, Marinette busies herself with plucking small pots and planters from the pile and checking their markers to determine where they need to go. With her hands sufficiently occupied, she asks as casually as she can muster, “Do you really have no tattoos on your body? Not even a small soul mark somewhere or anything?”

Voicing the curiosity didn't feel right; but then again, thinking it hadn’t been very considerate to begin with. Being right at the heart of tattoo culture- and all the consequences that come as a price- means Marinette understands rather viscerally how important consent and privacy are.

And she had gone and violated both core fundamentals with a single question.

Curiosity may be the death of her yet.

There’s no revulsion, no disgust, no anger that greets her though, only a frank, if guileless nod; and that, more than anything Adrien says, is what confirms her curiosity.

“None whatsoever,” he says. “My father wouldn’t let me, and I wouldn’t have gotten as much work modeling and acting as I have over the years if I did have a mark.” His hands bury themselves forcefully into the dirt, as if he could rub the stain of the earth into his skin. “Bad for publicity.”

 _Bad for publicity_ , Marinette mouths in an echo, incredulous. She can understand the importance of maintaining an image. She’s spent far too many years, dedicated far too much time, helped far too many people to ignore just how powerfully a single image can shape a person.  

But to then have his own voice forcibly excluded from the person that he was cultivated to be? What does a man who is celebrated for being an exception, a literal blank slate, have to hide?

Blood pounds in Marinette’s ears, magnifying her anger. She didn’t get any more tattoos after she came of age, but that had been _her_ choice, one that she’s coveted her right to maintain ever since.

“Careful.” Adrien’s voice breaks through the haze in her mind just in time for her to notice his hand hovering over hers. Her fingers twist among the stems of several lilies, creasing the stalks into odd angles. Before he can touch her, she hastily withdraws, smoothing out the abused flowers in her wake as best as she can.

He glances at her expression and tactfully changes the subject. “I still need some flowers to plant when we're done.”

Despite her misgivings, it's not her place to comment or judge, so she swallows her anger and buries the thorny pit at the bottom of her stomach.

“Maybe it’ll be my turn to give you flowers,” Marinette jokes weakly.

Adrien’s smile hooks up to a side as he sets apart a planter full of catmint. “I know a great flower shop who’ll give you an incredible discount. Practically free.”

“Unbelievable.” Her amusement shines through stronger this time, carrying the fuller weight of her laugh. “I’ll get you someday Agreste, you just wait and see.”

“Looking forward to it.” His low voice practically purrs as he winks at her.

That’s enough justification for Marinette to reach a hand around to his back and succumb to the impulse she’d been holding back. Her fingers tangle with the ends of his apron ties, and she gives a hearty tug along the strings. The yelp that startles out of Adrien as he lands back on his butt is but a ringing note for her to thread her laughter around.

“A dirty trick!” he announces, propping himself up with his elbows to look up at her.

No damsel in distress looked as good as Adrien Agreste lying on the ground with his clothes rumpled, his hair disheveled, and his face warmed pink with mirth. No wonder the cameras love him so. The temptation to touch him is strong, stronger than the impulse of pulling his apron strings. Reality rarely felt so unreal.

Her right hand falls out to help him up, peonies bared and watching along her wrist, and he meets her halfway, stretching his arm up and clasping his fingers gently within hers. His eyes trace her tattoos as she effortlessly pulls him back up.

His hand never strays from where she has offered herself, but the simple act of his fingers twined with hers electrifies her every nerve, searing from the tips of her fingers up to the length of her arm. Sparks coalesce, expand, then detonate beneath each peony stitched into her skin with breathtaking pain. Lightning crawls through her veins, seeking forks in her soft body to break forth from. It feels a lot like burning metal and a little like itching curiosity.

For a dizzying second, her heartbeat feels too large for her body, threatening to fracture her apart.

Then in the next eyeblink, the pain subsides, lightning dissolving into her body in currents of heat until her body regains stability and cohesion, until her peonies no longer burn, until there is nothing but the gentle pressure of Adrien’s warm hand in hers. The slow and steady pulse of his heart beating through his fingertips against her palm anchors her back to him, back to the scent of rich, dark earth that fills her lungs with growth instead of the decay of burning iron.

Marinette doesn’t know whether to drop his hand like a hot brick or hold on in fear and fascination. Her fingers involuntarily tighten around Adrien’s as she glances down to check her tattoos, only to find them as static and dormant as the day she first got them. The deep pink blooms stare back blankly, impassively, betraying not a single hint of what she just experienced.

Her throat works to say something, anything.

“If you give a girl a bunch of flowers and she loves them, she must be a bunch of bees in disguise,” Marinette wildly blurts out. As Adrien’s expression twists into confusion, her brain yells for her to _stop!_ but her mouth continues treacherously, “Because, you know. Bees like flowers. And I like flowers. So.”

God, she can just hear Alya facepalming somewhere behind them.

“Is this a confession?” Adrien asks gravely. “Because I’ll bee-leaf it when I see it.”

Her face lights with a magnificent red glow as she hurriedly withdraws her hand, dropping Adrien’s fingers from hers. She overcompensates and, without Alya or Nino to knowingly grab onto her, falls back on her butt, narrowly missing a group of potted anemones clustered behind her.

In role reversal, Adrien offers his hand with a small laugh; but Marinette is more than experienced in picking herself up from the ground again and again. She avoids his offer to help, avoids placing her skin against his, and pulls herself up to rest solidly on her knees.

“And I didn’t even need to do anything,” Adrien chuckles. He has no idea how true an observation that is. “I guess we’re even now. And it’s my turn to ask a question.”

“Ask away,” Marinette invites, eager to move the conversation back to a track where she can no longer embarrass herself. Her hands shake with minute tremours as she grabs at another pot in the pile. Fiercely, she wills herself to stop, to bury the incident to mull over later- or never. She forces the shaky heartbeat choking up her throat down, down back into the safe hollow of her ribcage.

“What’s it like? To help people find their soulmates?” Adrien asks without preamble, his gaze trained attentively on her expression. There it was again, that faint edge of loneliness that gave his question the delicate weight of unfed hope. “Nino might've told me a bit about you,” he admits as an afterthought. 

“Only good stuff!” Nino’s voice sails over to land between them, a prelude to his appearance at their backs. Beside him, Alya brushes her hands against her jeans, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows to display dark skin freckled with dirt. “Speaking of good stuff, we’re going to grab food from the café a few blocks down. Want to come, or want us to get you anything?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Marinette sighs as she lifts a pot of catmint up. The cool dark and the thick earth press comfortingly around her, soothing her singed nerves over. The tall stalks studded with dainty indigo flowers sway as she holds them up, stilling when her fingers weave and settle between them.

“I’ll stay too,” Adrien agrees. “Not really hungry yet.”

“You two,” Alya groans as she rolls her eyes. “Well we’ll get something for you anyway. It’s not healthy, skipping meals to work.”

“Thanks mom,” Marinette laughs. “Where would I be without you?”

“Nowhere worth telling, that’s for sure,” Alya grins. She brings a hand up to blow a kiss, instead sending a cloud of dirt and dust to spiral in the air.

A low rumble growls from Nino’s stomach, prompting him to moan, “I’m going to start eating these flowers soon, let’s go.”

“Can’t have that now, can we?” Alya hooks her arm through Nino’s and marches to the light spilling through the divide between the screens. “Play nice kids, we’ll be back soon.”

Marinette waves after their backs, laughing as she watches them bump playfully into each other. It’s not until they’re gone from sight that she registers Adrien’s silence. Concerned, she glances back around to him, only to find his eyes as round as saucers. 

“Her arm,” he whispers, gesturing vaguely towards his own in awe. “It just- where she touched Nino, it was _glowing_. Shimmering. Is she like, part android?”

His surprise is as much endearing as it is enlightening. With his astonishment, she sees Alya’s tattoos with his eyes, new eyes, and finds them breathtaking in a way she hadn't thought since the first time she saw Alya’s tattoos come to life.

“Alya is a special case. In more ways than one,” Marinette explains. Her fingers trace the pattern in the soil, still remembering the design of it by heart. Her fingertips drag down straight, meticulously carving out parallel lines that run alongside each other to form a puzzle.

“Is that a maze?” Adrien asks curiously as he watches her.

“Circuit board,” Marinette corrects, switching to her pinky finger as she draws the lines that run through Alya’s hands. “Done with UV ink, so that’s why you can’t see her tattoos under normal light or daylight. You can see them under blacklight, but it’s not the same as when someone touches her.”

“Someone? You mean someone other than Nino?”

The question gives Marinette pause. It’s not one that she or Alya have an exact answer to or explanation for. “Hers react to multiple people with different intensities. Big soul, big heart, big mind. She’s the person who helps people find their soulmates. That sort of drama is more her thing; I just give people tattoos.”  

Pattern done, she dusts her hands off and leans back onto her heels to observe her work. The indents along the bed of dirt hardly has the same effect as Alya’s tattoos pulsing into the visible spectrum of light, but the paths run the same length, seek the same journey, carry the same questions and want for answers. Wisteria hangs over the edge of a wheelbarrow, stretching down to join pots of marigold and catmint in examining the addition to the ground.

“You do so much more than ‘just’ give people tattoos. Alya's lucky to have someone like you,” Adrien comments thoughtfully, rocking back until he sits comfortably on the ground with his legs crossed. He absentmindedly begins digging a shallow well into the dirt as he continues, “I sort of thought that being a soul marker must mean that you get to see the best in people?”

“They don't always tell me why they want something, or how they feel about what they're getting. Alya knows more about that kind of thing,” Marinette admits, plucking a planter full of sage to sit by her side. “She digs into the heart of the matter. Literally. And there’s no stopping her once she gets going.”

“And that’s not something you do?” The question is more pointed, but more tentative. Even without looking, Marinette can feel Adrien watching her, gauging where the lines he should not cross lie.

She pinches a browning leaf of sage off, crushing the deadening blade in her palm. A thick, aromatic scent spikes into the air, hanging pungent between them. “I see the raw in people, for better and for worse. I mark them so it's apparent to everyone else what and who they are.”

“And who they could be to someone else.”

The crushed sage in Marinette's hand sprinkles gently over her depression in the dirt, filling in the silence as she mulls over her response. Adrien’s simple candor arms his vulnerability with strength; but the more she thinks about her own answer, the more raw and defensive her thoughts become.

“Here's the thing,” she finally says. She still doesn’t quite know what to say, but her mouth opens and finds the words as she forges on. “It's about closure, and so rarely do people get it.”

Adrien’s brow furrows, and Marinette knows that he still doesn’t see it.

“Isn't it more about new possibilities?” he slowly puzzles out. “You never know who could be your soulmate. It could be the person you just passed by the street. It could be someone you'll meet in another country in a few years. It could be someone standing right in front of you.”

Seated in the dark amongst enough flowers to submerge under, Adrien’s confidence is easy to understand. Flowers blossom again and again, coming to back to life each time around after death. Everything is a process, always in a thousand different stages of bloom and colour; never in the permanence and finality of black and white.

Marinette’s peonies itch as her fingers cuff around her wrist and twist skin around bone, stretching and distorting her tattoos. “And you could be wrong.”

“You don’t know that.” Adrien’s tone lilts slightly in a challenge, in a reprimand. 

“I do. _You_ do.” Her fingers uncuff and fall open to frame her peonies, pointing authoritatively at them. “And you’d be reminded every day of that decision. Some tattoos aren't for show. Sometimes, they cover something up. Sometimes, that something is a someone.”

Her hands fall back to the soil, her fingers spreading in a fan as she wipes the dirt clean of her drawing. Sage mingles with the soil until there is nothing but a blank slate left in her wake. Another silence follows, stretching long enough for Marinette to tilt her head back to peer at Adrien from under her eyelashes. A planter of anemones arch beneath his fingertips, stems curved over for their delicate white heads to droop down, their blue eyes peering dolefully at the ground. His frown creases in consideration, an expression open to her gaze but not meant for her. His green eyes focus blankly ahead, looking but not seeing as he turns something over in his mind.

“I think,” Adrien says quietly, thoughtfully, “I’d be pretty sad to know that my soulmate didn’t want me.”

Marinette thinks of lightning, and the carbonization of fear. “Life isn't a movie.”  

Adrien’s smile is a wan, pale crescent, heavy with wistfulness. “And I'm not acting.”

“There isn't always a perfect ending,” Marinette warns.

“Who wants perfect?” Adrien shrugs. His fingers dive deep into the soil of the planter, curling and cupping his hands until he can gently unroot the anemones from their pot. Soil crumbles from tips that peek out between his fingers, displaying silvery spider-web thin roots forking down.

With great care, he rehomes the anemones into the well dug in the earth. Their roots sink down gratefully into the new soil even as their stalks sway unsteadily from where they stand. Swiftly, smoothly, Adrien pats dirt firmly around the base, filling crevices up to blend the new seamlessly into the old until there is only solid ground from which to rise up from.

The full, round white petals sigh open a little wider, exposing deep blue nectaries that rise up as inverse stars against a silver white sky. The anemones glow bright against the dark of the earth, sink deep into the dark of waiting, root strong for the dark of new growth.

Adrien breathes it all in and sighs, “I’d just choose to be happy.”

 

* * *

 

A handful of anemone blooms constellate across Marinette’s desk, scattering over open sketchbooks and loose sheets of paper. Drawings done in pen, paintings illustrated in ink, and sketches doodled in pencil peek through from underneath. Tattoo designs wait to be addressed, but Marinette simply taps her pen against the table in thought, a metronome marking the rhythm of time. 

The fragrant flowers carry the thick, musky scent of soil, mingling with the familiar aroma of ink and wood of _Luck be A Lady_. If she closes her eyes, she can see the dim back area of the _Catmint Print_ , can still see the mountainous terrain of flowers, can still see Adrien offering her a bundle of anemone blooms at the end of the day with a thanks and a smile. The two places blur together in her mind, overlapping in double exposure.

Muffled thunder growls outside, carrying the heavy weight of a storm to bear down upon the night and prompting her heart to quicken in anticipation. Her nerves sharpen, waiting for that crack. A sharp _ping_ from her phone announces a text instead, which Marinette guesses is Alya reminding her to not stay up all night working again.

It goes unanswered. A restlessness stirs the tip of Marinette’s pen, seeking definition. She knows rest will not come until she finds it.  

The rain comes quietly, then insistently, knocking knocking knocking incessantly upon the glass windows. They are old ghosts seeking entry, seeking sanctuary. Their busy chorus washes over the repetitive tap of her pen with erratic melody. The light, cool pressure of their presence slides over her shoulders, glides down her spine, soothing over the words that have been rattling around her mind from hours ago. 

_“I’d be pretty sad to know that my soulmate didn’t want me.”_

Reality seems to bend around Adrien in a way Marinette can’t explain. Truths that she understands don’t fit quite right, as if his negative spaces challenge for reexamination, revision, and refit of definition.

Her pen roves over a sheet of paper tirelessly, trying to find shape and form to make sense of. Ideas and images leak out across the page but there’s no satisfaction to be found, only a driving curiosity.

Her hand bumps up against an anemone and stills against the softness. This close up, her eyes easily find the wrinkles and imperfections veined along the white petals that curve up and cup the deep blue center that glimmers purple in the light. Marinette nudges the flower and watches the blue run along the indigo spectrum in a multitude of minute flashes, echoes of the rain drumming meditatively throughout the tattoo parlour.

Ink leaks at the tip of her pen at her pause, forming a growing spot stained on the page as useful as the rest of what she’s drawn so far. Never one to allow a block to stop her, Marinette simply reroutes herself and begins to draw what she sees instead of what she feels.  

Her pen skates all across the page, but the tactility of the anemone her eyes trace and her hand follows doesn’t translate. There is something missing.

Marinette halts. She flexes her wrist and watch her peonies stretch and curve around her form, as alive as her body nurtures them to be. Her pen lifts, hovers, and settles onto the blank canvas of her left bicep, and begins to draw.

Blue ink marks her pale skin with graceful confidence, digging up lines and following grooves that Marinette can feel ghosting beneath her skin. Instinct guides her right hand into finding and charting out constellations of anemones over the sky of her skin, the kind of navigation that perpetuates the surreal sense of being removed from the process. She cannot see as her hand can with her pen, so she only follows the path it illuminates.

Time ticks, rain knocks, overhead lights hum, thunder rumbles, and the night slips on by.

Her shoulder arms itself with a cap of anemones clustered together, a perfect fit. As she pulls a table mirror out to inspect the full effect of the drawings wrapped around the ball of her shoulder trailing down to her bicep, Marinette wonders at how perfectly the flowers bloomed onto her skin.

She sets her pen down. Stares at her armoured shoulder for a lingering moment. Reaches to a place she knows by heart and pulls Tikki out.

Setting up passes by like a dream: one minute, she’s washing her hands; the next, preparing cups of deep blue and thick, white ink to dip into. The anemones Adrien gave her rest together next to her materials, their wide, blue eyes curious and watchful.

She loads Tikki up, threads the needles full of ink, and begins to stitch herself together. 

Tikki’s needles sting and bite as white silvers under her skin and the anemones begin to take root within her body. It’s been so long since Marinette’s last felt this tender sort of pain.

She wonders if this is how it always feels like, the bloom of becoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Alya's tattoos.](http://mmmatchaball.tumblr.com/post/139194135955) (Gosh, I was and still an unbelievably excited about her tattoo idea :D)  
> [General idea of Marinette's new tattoo](http://mmmatchaball.tumblr.com/post/147960447670/electrictattoos-mxmttt-fun-mums-for-joeys) but with [anemones](http://planningitall.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/03/anemone-2.jpg) in white ink. 
> 
> I'm so sorry this took a while to get out! Homework really crushed down hard on me the past two weeks and I could only work on this in brief flashes; not to mention that, for a chapter that only had a simple three sentence outline, this just kept getting longer and longer and longer. I thought this chapter was going to be like, four pages max; instead, here is a whopping 16 pages for your enjoyment. Honestly, this started writing itself several times along the way! Although every time I went to write 'anemone', I kept typing it out the same way Nemo says it, which made for a trip when I went to go edit.
> 
> Thank you so much for the wonderfully kind comments and tags you guys have been leaving! It's really kept my spirits up and helped me push through a huge writer's block and bout of insecurity that I got stalled at in the middle of this chapter. Next chapter will hopefully come a little quicker, thanks for your patience and support :')


	4. Gladioli, for strength against doubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An _enormous_ thank you to:  
>  -the incredible [qookyquiche](https://qookyquiche.tumblr.com/) for drawing [Marinette with her tattoos](https://qookyquiche.tumblr.com/post/148047436435/nudity-warning-i-guess-this-took-longer-than-it)  
> -the wonderful [actualtinydragon](http://actualtinydragon.tumblr.com/) for drawing [Marinette's adorable outfit](http://actualtinydragon.tumblr.com/post/148104301894/maris-outfit-from-matchaball-s-inking-indigo-is)  
> -the magical [amarantea](http://amarantea.tumblr.com/) for drawing [Adrien's incredible expression](http://amarantea.tumblr.com/post/148720075454/even-though-there-are-few-lights-in-the-back-and)  
> -the fantastical [luullaby](http://luullaby.tumblr.com/) for drawing [Marinette tattooing her anemones](https://www.instagram.com/p/BIXT-Wtg3PW/) and [Tikki's design](https://www.instagram.com/p/BIndBBxgIDb/)!!!
> 
> And, dear and darling [paperskirts](http://paperskirts.tumblr.com/), thanks for keeping me together when I was having a meltdown over this :')

“Three minutes and eight seconds,” Alya announces. “You’re slowing down, Mari.” 

A muffled grumble emerges from the lump of blankets on the couch, followed by an arm unfolding out with the hand flattened open expectantly.

With a roll of her eyes, Alya dutifully checks the lid to ensure it’s securely closed before carefully passing over the steaming thermos of coffee to the waiting hand. The rich, heady aroma of fresh coffee saturates the air enticingly, coaxing Marinette to poke her head above the ocean of blankets she submerged herself under for the night. Her short cropped hair is an absolute stormcloud around the harbour of her blue eyes and deep eye bags as her fingers slowly clamp onto the thermos, an anchor to fix upon.

A basket bearing the logo of gold laurel leaves framing a distinctive ‘TS’ signature dangles from Alya’s fingers, though the fragrant, buttery smell of fresh croissants speaks for itself. 

Further enticed by the prospect of food from home, Marinette slowly emerges. Blankets roll back from the shore of her body to reveal horribly rumpled overalls and the couch’s handwriting creased onto her freckled skin.

Luckily, Alya is fluent in all dialects of Marinette. Her glasses glint as she peers down to read each droopy line of exhaustion nested in every wrinkle and crease. Her tongue clucks in fond exasperation as she asks with a hint of wicked humour, “Rough night?”

“Loooo _oong_ ” rolls out of Marinette’s mouth in response, more yawn than word.

Her response ripples through the rest of her body in a wave of motion as she stretches both arms up and out, arches her back, and reaches for the end of the couch with her toes. A pained grunt rips from her throat as her cramps and aches stubbornly refuse to disappear, prompting a laugh from Alya.

“Sometimes I forget how tiny you are,” Alya says. “You sound like a dinosaur. A dying one.”

“I hurt,” Marinette whines, following up with a long swig of coffee. The caffeine sparks a bit of colour back into her pale cheeks.

“For how often you ignore my texts and stay up all night working, I can only call this karma,” Alya decides, shooting Marinette a significant look that Marinette pointedly avoids by drinking more coffee. “I don't need the read receipts to know you didn't even open my message. Do you deserve these delicious croissants and quiches your parents made for us? Hmmm… my stomach says no…”

“If I didn't, you wouldn't have gone out of your way to the bakery to pick them up,” Marinette grins, calling Alya’s bluff. “You're absolutely and positively the very best friend in the world who I don't deserve.”

Alya laughs, reaching in to snag herself a croissant before dropping the basket of food onto Marinette’s lap. “Yeah, yeah, you suck up.”

“It's working though,” Marinette beams, lifting the lip of the basket’s top to peer at the contents. The vast amounts of flaky, buttery croissants and little quiche tarts nestled within incite a lengthy growl from her stomach, a reaction Alya shakes her head over. Marinette can only imagine the conversation Alya had with her parents for them to pack so much food.

The lure of coffee pulls her back, reminding her of more pressing concerns- such as the way time seems to muffle her ears and blur her vision. A meager few hours of sleep is not rejuvenating in the slightest. Marinette decides that if death via lack of sleep was coming for her, she might as well be awake enough to greet him. She gulps back another mouthful of hot coffee before grabbing the handle of the basket and setting it down gently upon the floor, the most graceful she’s been all morning.

As she sits back up, a long groan creaks out mournfully.

“I'm weak for your charms, clearly,” Alya deadpans dryly around a mouthful of croissant. “Please tell me that was the couch and not you.”

The sharp _crack_ that pops out from Marinette’s neck as she rolls her head around the terrible knots gnarling her muscles up condemns her before she can even speak.

Alya’s face scrunches up sourly as she finishes the last bit of her croissant, an expression more appropriate for biting into a lemon and not the delicious creation Marinette knows her parents’ croissants to be.

“There’s nothing I can say to convince you that was nothing, right?” Marinette laughs nervously, drawing her knees up to frame her thermos of coffee protectively.

“Was it worth it? Was whatever it was that kept you up all night worth the destruction of your body?” Alya demands, gesturing dramatically.

“Please, if I was going to actually destroy myself I wouldn’t stop halfway like this,” Marinette snorts as she curls her hands around her thermos.

A slight pull of the plastic wrap along her shoulder catches her attention, a small tap that outweighs the incessantly heavy ache of her muscles. The reminder douses her ice cold, electrifying her into a sharp and instant wakefulness that the coffee in her hands couldn’t achieve.

A jolt of hypersensitivity has her new tattoos prickling in tiny sparks fraying away under her skin. Unconsciously, her peonied wrist lifts up for her hand to rub the raw sensation away. Her fingers halt just short of the transparent plastic wrap before curling into a tight fist to lower back down with slow purpose.

Through the window of her plastic wrap, the anemones must be glinting silvery white upon her skin. Marinette doesn’t look.

A pause hangs between the two of them, growing heavily pregnant as Alya’s eyes follow the ascent of Marinette’s hand before they suddenly widen behind her glasses. The pause quivers, waiting to be broken.

The shock reflected clearly in Alya’s clear hazel eyes holds flecks of concern that Marinette cannot answer to. For all that Alya is wickedly observant, her surprise is expected; she hadn’t been looking, hadn’t been expecting Marinette to have a hiding place she doesn’t already know about.

It's as much a surprise to Marinette. The white peels of anemones stretch her soul open for the dark blue eyes of nectaries to gaze from.

She has never felt so vulnerable. She has never felt so unsure.

Her skin burns, flushing with an emotion she can't quite pinpoint. Shame? Embarrassment? Pride? Words rise up in a tide and clog within her throat, but the anemones shining through the transparent plastic wrap speak for themselves. Saying what, Marinette is still not quite sure.

The couch dips as Alya sinks down at the edge. Her hand finds one of Marinette’s blanket-covered knees hunched up protectively against her front, and gives her a reassuring squeeze.

“Mari, they look perfect,” Alya says softly.

Trust a journalist to know exactly what to say. Trust her best friend to know exactly what she needed to hear.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Marinette slowly unwinds herself and leans into Alya’s confidence and strength. Uncertainty still crawls through her nerves in an undercurrent of static, an echo of the burning heat that laced through her veins in unforgiving forks that threatened to crack her open.

Last night had been more reaction than reason, more impulse than intention. The lack of clear purpose leaves Marinette unbalanced.

But the tattoos bloomed upon Marinette’s shoulder have never felt more right, as if they had always been there waiting for her to unearth them. Their growth has little to do with delicacy and more to do with fortitude. The pauldron of anemones capping her shoulder protects her as surely as they reveal a facet of her soul. 

There’s a hazy truth lingering at her peripherals that she doesn’t want to confront yet, if ever. It doesn’t hurt though, to arm herself with a little invincibility.

“Alya.” Her voice finally unsticks to allow words to wing unsteadily from her mouth. “What am I doing?”

“What you always do,” Alya says, reaching out and gently lifting Marinette’s chin up with long fingers. “Whatever's been needed.”

Except Marinette’s always been informed of what's been required of her. She can trust other’s needs to drive her, to bolster her into someone more, someone better than the sum of her insecurities and doubts. Even if she chooses to distance herself from the consequence of soulmates, tattooing all those who come through her door, who choose _her_ , is when she is at her best and brightest.

Sometimes, Marinette feels it’s as close to a hero as she can be.

But there had been no one in the shop last night, save for her, the rain, and the handful of anemone blooms Adrien gave her scattered across her desk.

“What did _I_ need?” Marinette muses quietly.

The basket on the floor almost tips over as Alya swings her legs up onto the couch and folds her limbs loosely around Marinette’s. She hums thoughtfully, her gaze tracing the outline of the plastic wrap, before suggesting, “Maybe not a what, but a who.”

The next sip of coffee that Marinette takes lingers at the back of her mouth, warm and dark and earthy. A slow swallow, and she can feel the tickle of tiny indigo catmint blooms in her throat, can remember the round weight of Adrien's laugh. The trickle of coffee down to her stomach echoes the way his eyes dropped to her marked wrist, his gaze unabashedly curious and magnetically drawn.

His touch had burned her; but she wonders how it'd taste, the light of his skin.

A beat later, and Marinette’s face flames up self-consciously. Alya may not be able to read minds, but she comes pretty damn close. The knowing glint in her eyes has Marinette gulping down another mouthful of coffee and almost choking as it overflows her mouth. Even after excessive amounts of coughing from her and laughter from Alya, the hunger still lingers at the bottom of Marinette’s belly.

“Gee, I wonder who it could be,” Alya muses teasingly, pretending to stroke her chin in thought. “Obviously someone who's funny, smart, cute, has great hair, looks amazing in purple, gets you free stuff…”

“Alya!”

“You're right!” With a toss of her curly hair, Alya laughs, “It’s me, obviously. I do look incredible in purple.”

The laugh that snorts through Marinette’s nose carries an edge of relief. The anemones stitched onto her skin are already an admission to something- or someone- but she’s not ready to admit that out loud to even Alya.

Even as Alya’s smile quirks up to a side in understanding, her arm thrusts out, sleeves rolled up to the elbow to bare seemingly unmarked skin. Tiny moles pepper her forearm, the only visible landmarks for the invisible constellation of tattoos Marinette already knows by heart. Alya’s fingers wriggle in the air expectantly and age old habit nearly has Marinette raising her own hand to bump up for their secret handshake.

She doesn’t though, not anymore. Wariness replaces amusement as Marinette prods her metal thermos against Alya’s fingers instead. “Al, we both already know what happens when I touch you.”

“We know what _has_ happened. We don't know what _will_ happen,” Alya argues, undeterred. Her eyes fix upon Marinette’s plastic wrap pointedly. “I’m not asking to touch you back. You know, though, that _I_ like to know. And judging from last night, you have more surprises than I thought.” 

Marinette smiles weakly. “Gotta make sure you don't get bored of me.” Her hands remain resolutely on her thermos, anchoring herself to her coffee.

“I think it's safe to say that after all the shit we've been through together, boring is the last word I'd use to describe you,” Alya says. “Maybe ambitious, or resourceful, or stubborn, or obsessive-”

“Gee, _thanks_ -”

“-or maybe, _brave_.”

There is a compliment and a challenge loaded within such a heavy word, daring Marinette to rise up to meet Alya’s eyes. She sits up straight and arms her spine up with steel, knowing exactly what Alya is trying to do.

And damn if Alya knows her all too well.

“You know what killed the cat?” Marinette asks as she sets her empty thermos down on the floor.

“You know what brought it back?” Alya shoots back as she leans down and snaps the lid on the thermos closed.

A faint smile crosses Marinette’s face. “Not a what,” she echoes, “but a who. You did.”

“And now,” Alya says, “ _you_ will.”

Her forearm extends out again as she sits back up, an offer of escort, a gesture from another era. She is ready to lead, if Marinette only takes that first step forward. Soulmates may be Alya’s business, but tattoos are Marinette’s; this is a bit of both, but _Luck be A Lady_ is Marinette’s home, where any who come are folded under her wing.   

So she takes a deep breath, unfurls her hand, and touches right on a mole at the crook of Alya’s elbow. With careful precision, Marinette traces down a path she’s traveled before, her finger gliding over Alya’s skin.

The tattoo flares to life, awakening in iridescent paths that shimmer brighter as Marinette is the one to lead the way down. The colours hum excitedly, flickering in flashes of bright white and neon blues and pinks, pulsing continuously up against the tip of Marinette’s finger as she methodically traces her way down over the bump of Alya’s wrist, beyond the mountainous terrain of her knuckles, and across to the end of her pointer finger.

Curiosity feels like a slow burning tempered by the cool touch of her fingertip.

And it feels like nothing different beneath her own skin.

Marinette doesn’t know if it’s relief or disappointment that cools her nerves. Even as Alya’s tattoos come online in a rush of light and heat, nothing changes within her own body. Her peonies sleep, her anemones rest, and her soul is quiet.

“Dang,” Alya whispers at the brilliantly lit conduit shining on her arm. “This is pretty cool.”

In a roll of motion, Marinette clasps the expanse of her palm over Alya’s hand and sweeps up the length of her forearm. The illumination of every tattooed path awakens in a startling rush, scintillating with the fluctuation in energy. The complete network of pathways burns strongly enough to be a light source of their own, Alya’s own vambrace of knowledge.

Marinette’s fingers linger at the elbow for a moment longer before dropping back down to her lap. They watch the circuits hum with pulses of iridescence, traveling around and around until the totality of Alya’s tattoos shine in equilibrium.

The light goes first from Alya’s fingertips, dimming, then shutting down when there is no further contact to sustain it. The fading creeps upwards, systematically turning all conductive tracks of the circuit off until there is only smooth, dark, unmarked skin left, innocent and unassuming.

Where Marinette’s fingers go, the light follows.  

A long, low whistle from Alya punctures the stunned silence as her fingers graze over her own arm, as if she could call her tattoos to life again. They do not yield to her.

“I don’t think they react so brightly for even Nino,” she admits. Her eyes cut up to Marinette’s, reading her reaction. “Well, now I know.”

And now Marinette does too; she’s known most everyone who’s touched Alya’s tattoos and connected with her. The list isn’t long, but that there is a list at all is remarkable.

“You’re so lucky,” Marinette says suddenly, unthinkingly. “Just- your tattoos don't follow the same rules as everyone else’s. If someone doesn't work out, you know you always have someone else you connect with.”

Alya chuckles dryly as she rolls her sleeve back down. “Mari, I'm not an exception. You know soulmates aren't like apples where I can just pick or choose. I love you all. And I love you all a little differently. It would still tear my gut out to lose like you or Nino, soul mark notwithstanding.”

“I mean, I can't even handle knowing that there's only one person I'm tied to out there,” Marinette sighs, wriggling her legs to free herself completely from her blankets. Without a beat, Alya grabs the deposed fabric and slings it over her shoulders for warmth. “It's so much to expect from just one person, to be a perfect fit. At least with several soulmates, there’s less pressure maybe? It splits it up equally then.” 

The look Alya fixes her with belies her suspicious retort. “I hope you're not trying to compare me to Voldemort here.”

The laugh that bursts out from Marinette tastes a little bitter in her mouth. “Even Voldemort got to choose what objects he could split his soul into.”

“I’m axing the Voldemort discourse,” Alya mutters, rolling her eyes up high. “Soulmates just mean, of all the people in the world, I choose you.” In the pause that follows, her fingers tap against her forearm in thought before she adds, “And you, and you, and you, and you, in my case.”

“Except I wouldn’t be,” Marinette protests. Her legs swing around Alya to plant onto the ground, upsetting her thermos. It tips and rolls a few paces away, the silver of the tightly capped lid glinting back at her. “Choosing, that is. It’s never actually a _choice_.”

Alya arms herself with her ire, jabbing a finger out to poke Marinette in the leg. There is no escaping her sharp gaze as she fires back, “It’s not a trap either. Are you a body or a soul? You react, or you decide. So _choose_.”

They’re practically nose to nose but they might as well be standing on opposite sides of a chasm echoing after each other in cyclical repetition. There is no give in Alya’s conviction, but there rarely is when her stubbornness has the dedication to magnify the weight of its force. Mountains will crack themselves open before she does.

That doesn’t stop the simmer of resentment from bubbling up against Marinette’s ribcage, a brewing storm of defensiveness and indignation. In the center, her heart pounds loud and heavy with judgement, with false pretense of calm.

And beneath, beneath the anger, there is an undertow of doubt churning at the bottom of her stomach, testing for give, searching for roots to feed into.

It is an impasse they have not been able to bridge before, and one they will not bridge now. Neither is willing to fold; so they deflect instead.

“This sounds like one of those pep talks you used to give me when we first took over this place from maman,” Marinette finally says, leaning down to grab her runaway thermos.

“Yeah well,” Alya sighs, blowing a curl from her face, “I haven't given you one in a while so I think you were overdue. 

The thermos claims the top of the basket as its new home as Marinette cracks the lid open again, contemplating the merits of a croissant; but the hunger has disappeared into a numb pit. She takes one anyway and offers it to Alya as she sits back up. “Maybe you're more like Dumbledore then.” 

“Please,” Alya scoffs as she releases the blanket around her shoulders to devote her full attention to the offered croissant. As she sinks her first bite in, she continues, “If you're going to compare me to anyone at least choose someone born within a century of my age.”

“How about Hermione?” Marinette suggests, pulling her arms around in a stretch. The plastic wrap on her shoulder warps with her movement, reflecting the light of the studio. “Time is just a social construct anyway. You know we’ve all got souls of different ages.”

Alya rolls her eyes good-naturedly, pointing the uneaten end of her croissant at Marinette in accusation. “Saying that doesn’t let you off the hook for being perpetually late to everything. And since when did you become a soul expert?”

Marinette flashes her an impish grin. “About three minutes ago.”

“Great,” Alya cheers as she finishes off the rest of her croissant in quick, neat bites. “Can Nino and I film an interview with you about if after we talk to Juleka and Rose today?”

“Think I'll need more qualifications than ‘info pulled straight from my ass’,” Marinette counters dryly. “Also is that today?”

“Yup, unless every calendar I've looked has been lying to me, in which case I'll need to postpone their interview to wage war on all calendars across Paris,” Alya says as she brushes the crumbs off her lap and onto the floor. She toes a shoe off and sweeps the crumbs under the couch, nodding in satisfaction as the floor gleams clean once more.

“You'll win and then we'll be left dateless, which will mess up our way of quantifying time, which will destroy society’s infrastructure, which will lead to the collapse of humanity,” Marinette laughs. “Running headlines: Alya Cesaire, Destroyer of Worlds.”

“It's got a nice ring to it at least.”

The front door opening sounds faintly in reply, as if called upon. Even through the closed door of her workspace, Marinette can make out Rose’s bright voice calling out in greeting.

Her cheeriness has the dismaying effect of reminding Marinette the little sleep she managed to snatch the night before. All at once, the weight of the day drops heavily onto her shoulders, inciting an enormous yawn. She glances longingly at the lumpy couch and worn blankets, and sighs, “I'm gonna change and brush my teeth, I'll be out of here in a moment.”

“You know you can stay,” Alya suggests, wincing as a symphony of cracks and pops sound from Marinette’s body as she conducts herself into standing. Alya’s foot snags the handle of the basket and thrusts it away from Marinette as she hobbles forward to her desk for her spare clothes.

“Not today.” Between the lack of sleep and Alya, Marinette is rubbed a little raw, stripped a little naked. “Not today.”

“If you change your mind…” Alya trails off as she stands as well, neatly folding her discarded blanket to toss back down onto the couch.

“I know.” And Marinette does. She always knows, with Alya. “Thanks.”

“No problem, Potter.”

“Why am I the Chosen One?” Marinette asks as Alya makes for the door.

“Why not?” Alya winks before slipping out.

She takes the energy with her, leaving Marinette with an empty thermos, too much food, and a question that rattles in the confines of a room that suddenly feels too small. Even as Marinette trips into the tiny adjoining bathroom and pulls out her toiletry kit, the question follows and dives into her mouth, deep into her lungs, burrowing into her gut.

It sits, an uninvited curiosity. The taste of Alya’s confidence has always been different: more potent, more persuasive. It if could, it’d give Marinette wings, give her fearlessness, give her invincibility, give her all she could ever need to save the world.

Marinette doesn’t want it. Her world condenses into the pinprick end of Tikki’s needle tips where ink hovers at the precipice, waiting for her to direct its creation. From her own hands, a universe stitches itself out across the expanse of bodies of all who come to her. Her skill coaxes out facets of souls to shine, bright as stars, and to call out across the dark vastness, hoping for an answer back.

The rest is up to fate and coincidence, forces that would take a Chosen One who’s much more put together than her to manipulate.

The bright lights reflected off the white sink do nothing to lighten the eyebags bruising blue and dark upon her face, to soften the overcast of her thundercloud of hair, to distract from the plastic wrap framing the silver of the anemones to glimmer through. She’s seen better days, but better days have not seen the new addition to her body.

Before she brushes her teeth or untangles her hair or washes her face, she gently peels the medical tape securing the plastic wrap off, and discards the plastic from her shoulder entirely.

In the tiny bathroom with only her reflection as witness, the anemones take their first breath of fresh air.

“I should tell maman,” Marinette murmurs as she gently washes the anemones with cold water and antibacterial soap. As she retrieves a container of Aquaphor ointment to rub into the healing tattoo, she decides, “I’ll tell her when I return the basket.”

The thin sheen of ointment soothes her sore skin, sharpens the edges of her tattoos, burnishes the broad strokes of pearlescent silver and deep blue unfurled on her shoulder. They gleam proudly when she’s done, as delicate as needlework, as strong as armour.

For good measure, Marinette rubs a little ointment on her peonies as well, polishing herself up a little brighter.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” she whispers to her reflection. “Creator of Luck.”

For a heartbeat, the words ring true. For a heartbeat, she believes them.

“Well,” she sighs, tiredly scrubbing her face and the moment away with her hands before beginning to wash up. “It’s a work in progress.”

Brushing her teeth and changing from wrinkled overalls to a strappy yellow sundress does wonders in making her feel human again, even if her hair stubbornly remains an untamable poof. Marinette pulls out her makeup bag, considers the contents for a second, and puts it away. Some battles call for retreat, especially when no amount of cover up or foundation will hide her eyebags.

Her overalls sling over the back of her chair as she comes back to her workstation, a chore for another day, another time. Tikki sits at the corner of her desk by her bag, her companion when drawing and partner-in-crime when tattooing.

Bypassing the bag, Marinette holds Tikki up as if seeing her for the first time. Tikki’s sleek, red body sparkles back at her, as new as the day she came into Marinette’s hands. Yet for all the years they’ve worked together, she has never fit into Marinette’s palm so perfectly; an intense compulsion to tattoo something else onto her skin flares up, a little sun expanding and burning in her chest.

Tikki almost drops from her hands like a lit match; Marinette sets her gently, carefully down instead, putting her away properly. Marinette’s fingers uncurl as she brings her hand up, revealing unmarked palms and not the scorch mark she expects.

Her hand flexes, the peonies stretching out across her wrist restlessly in memory.

She takes her bag and hoists the basket up, grabbing the thermos when it tips over the edge, before hurrying out. The sound of Alya’s voice paves the way to the front, a trail leading to Juleka and Rose sitting comfortably on one of the couches, Nino fiddling with a videocamera in front of them, and Alya rambling as she adjusts the microphones on Rose’s collar and Juleka’s jacket.

Attention immediately swings over to Marinette as gravitates closer to say hi, lifting the basket of food up in offering.

“Pretty dress Mari,” Nino compliments. His eyes rove up and widen as they catch sight of her gleaming new tattoos. A myriad of emotions and questions flicker in his hazel eyes, but what ends up shining through most transparently is his concern. Marinette smiles proudly, if tiredly, a wordless reassurance that Nino relaxes at. His concern tucks away for another time, a more appropriate moment.

His tact and ease of acceptance wrap around Marinette like a blanket, steady and assuring. Her smile softens gratefully, and he gives her a small wink as he blithely continues, “It makes you look-”

“-put together,” Alya finishes, quirking a knowing eyebrow at Marinette. “You’re that tired, huh?”

“Only thing in my emergency stash,” Marinette yawns, popping the lid of the basket open for Rose to take a croissant. “And yes. Hopefully the yellow distracts from the mess that is me and the dress tricks you into thinking I’m getting fancy when really it’s because it’s as easy to pull on as a onesie.”

“True, but it’s less warm.” Rose frowns in concern as she tears her croissant in half to share with Juleka. “You sure you won’t be cold? You can borrow my jacket if you’d like. Or my sweater. I might have an extra somewhere actually…”

It takes both Juleka and Marinette's combined efforts to physically stop Rose from searching through her bag, everyone else’s bags, and likely through the entire studio for an extra sweater. Only until Mariette insists that she appreciates the thought does Rose settle back down on the couch, her eyes still shining in concern as she threads an arm with Juleka’s.

“Are you joining us too, Marinette?” Rose asks hopefully, her free hand patting the empty spot next to her in invitation.

“I was just on my way out actually,” Marinette laughs nervously. “Maybe next time.”

“Don't say that, this one will hold you to it,” Nino says, gesturing towards Alya even as he fiddled with the tripod.

“You make it sound like a bad thing,” Alya accuses with a pout, sticking her tongue out at Marinette when she laughs.

“I only meant it in the very best of ways,” Nino assures her dryly.

“I'll always hold onto Mari,” Alya declares loyally. “She's my one and only.”

“I'll hold onto Juleka then!” Rose chimes in, leaning comfortably into the delicate hollow of Juleka’s shoulder. Turning towards the halo of Rose’s bright hair, Juleka plants a kiss against her head with a small smile. In a move so subtle that Marinette almost misses it, Juleka laces her fingers with Rose’s slowly, tentatively. With a fierceness not often witnessed, Rose grips Juleka’s hand protectively and pulls her close, as if daring anyone to take Juleka away from her.

“No problems with your tattoos then?” Marinette asks, a placeholder for the question she doesn't voice.

It's Juleka who answers, her “Well…” dragging out reluctantly into the open. Immediately, Marinette crouches down, dropping her basket to the floor so she can give her full attention to the pair of them.

“Tell me,” Marinette encourages gently.

“It's not a problem,” Rose insists, her brow furrowing into a frown.

Still, all it takes is a nudge from Juleka for Rose to lift her head, revealing a small tattooed magpie refracted in shades of purple nestled at the crook of Juleka’s neck and shoulder. Its head lifts to watch Rose’s retreat, its dark eyes sad. Colours flicker through the plumage anxiously, an undulation of maroon that cuts the magpie into a form composed more of sharply edged shadows than soft feathers.

Without a word, Rose leans down again to press a gentle kiss upon the magpie. Its bladed wings ruffle contentedly beneath her lips, the maroon splitting under spiderweb-thin lines of lavender shining through like silver in a cloud. The wings part to reveal a rose quartz glittering with tones of magenta and cyan resting on its back, a jewel framed adoringly by the magpie as it twists its head back around to brush the exposed heart.

“Oh,” Marinette breathes. “That is… wow, congratulations.”

But Juleka shakes her head, her expression glum. Another nudge into Rose’s side has Rose sighing, her cheek puffing, and her cardigan unbuttoning beneath her fingertips to reveal the bright pink tank top underneath.

As she turns to discard the cardigan onto the back of the couch, her back bares a delicate web of lace stretching down from the back of her neck, pulling across both shoulders, and dripping between pale shoulder blades to form a diamond. Each carefully handwritten loop drapes across in crystallized filigree, delineated in painstakingly fine dotted lines stitched with a single needle. Bracelets of tiny flowers tangled in netted lace wrap around her forearms, adorning Rose with the simplest and most permanent jewelry. She had been so infectiously excited about expanding the design across her back, her smile bright enough to be a new sun.

But as Marinette watches Juleka sweep her fingertips through the lines of lace as if they are strings on an instrument, she remembers, the day Rose came in to get them done was rainy.  

The sun Marinette remembers of that day was more a sunflower, tall with verdant green and haloed with soft gold.

Time slows then speeds up double time, yanking Marinette into scrambling for answers she just missed as Rose’s soft call of “Juleka” reorients her. Rose catches Juleka’s hand as it comes down, leaving Marinette’s eyes rewinding back to the lace for the touch she watched but didn't process. 

She scans, once, twice, and finds nothing.

Her mind finally slams on track with the realization that there had been _nothing_.

“This is not a problem,” Rose insists to Juleka, her tone growing fierce. “ _You_ are not a problem.”

“I know,” Juleka sighs, an admission caught between hesitance and confidence. She merely wraps an arm around Rose’s waist, drawing her close again and seeking comfort.

Rose gift wraps Juleka with arms twined around her torso, hands laced in a knot resting over a crow Marinette knows slumbers on the branches of Juleka’s ribcage. She imagines sun-bright yellow eyes blinking open, gaze drawn to Rose’s touch, Rose’s love, Rose’s promise.

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” Marinette assures Juleka with a kind smile. “You’re both in good hands.”

“Your hands, it would seem,” Alya chimes in quietly, startling the three of them. As Marinette twists back to look at the strangely quiet duo, she catches sight of Nino focused intensely on the video camera, clearly recording the interaction as Alya watches patiently beside him. She flashes a grin in apology and encouragement at Marinette. “ _Luck be A Lady_ does it again.”

“You're the best, Marinette,” Rose agrees enthusiastically. “You’re wonderful at this, and it’s amazing that you design everything yourself!”

“That's the thing,” Marinette laughs self-consciously, reddening at the sudden shift of attention. “Even if other people steal your designs, you can always tell pretty much if it's a copy or the original. Every artist has their own style and mark; like fingerprints, in a way.”

“You’ve touched all of us.” Juleka’s statement hangs quietly, matter-of-fairly, a simple truth bearing the weight of a universe.

“Maybe not all,” Marinette admits, “but if you ever need me, I'm there. 

She wishes them more luck than Théo, who keeps falling in love with people who eventually leave him when they find their soulmates; than Mme. Bustier, who is still searching, seventeen years later; than Lila, who found out and regretted it since; than Fu, who lost his soulmate young and carried the loss with him all the way to old age. She wishes them the kind of luck that Manon still believes in, the kind found in fairytales where all ends happily ever after.

She hopes that they are one of the lucky few who can make it work.

“Well,” Marinette sighs, glancing at the video camera before grabbing her basket and ducking out of shot, “I should get going.”

“Wait,” Juleka stops her. With a little shuffling, she reaches into her bag to withdraw a sword of violet gladiolus flowers to present to Marinette.

“This is beautiful.” The stem twirls gracefully through Marinette’s fingers as she accepts the gift. She sheathes the bottom in the corner of the basket, leaving the purple blooms to sway in the air, her own modern day sword and shield. “Thank you! Hope you guys have fun interviewing.”

“Think we got a lot good stuff already,” Nino says, looking up and sending her a thumbs up. 

“Take your time,” Marinette insists, though the cheeky smile she sends at Alya gives away her teasing. “Don’t rush it.”

“You're lucky you're cute,” Alya snorts, bumping her hip against Marinette’s as Marinette heads for the front door.  “You better eat all that or your parents will worry and send even _more_ food next time.”

“What says love better than a mountain of food after all?” Marinette laughs, turning the handle on the door. “See you guys later.”

Amongst a chorus of farewells from everyone, she steps out right into a brisk skein of air playing through the street. It tugs at her dress and ruffles her hair before zipping away, only to come back around to blow goosebumps onto her skin and waft the buttery scent up from the basket.

Marinette inhales deeply and sighs at the weight in her arms.

“What am I supposed to do with all these croissants?”

 

* * *

 

Tom Dupain always said, “Many mouths make light work.” 

That often meant an open invitation to any of Marinette’s friends to come over during lunch or after school to snack on leftover pastries from the day before, freshly warmed up courtesy of Sabine. Frequent visitors often included Alya and her siblings, always willing to try new recipes, and Nino, always ready to polish off even the stalest of breads; but Tom always puffed out proudly at the bottomless pit that was Marinette’s stomach, an unmatched force of nature.

Meals, of course, were always delicious, but Marinette loved singing to songs on the radio with Sabine as they cooked, loved racing with Tom as they frosted cakes, loved pulling out an old recipe with both her parents and making it their own.

Her parents taught her that food meant love and warmth and welcome.

So Marinette’s first instinct when she has more than she knows what to do with is to seek and share.

Her feet turns and starts walking before she even knows where she’s going. Colour and texture bleed into the street, into the buildings, layering each step she takes with an old history that breathes itself anew. Paris is old, but not often like this, covered in a patina of riotous ornamentation celebrating the fantastical. When iron railings begin curling gracefully overhead in swirls and arches, and the awnings and facades of buildings ripple in curvilinear undulations by her side, she knows exactly where muscle memory is taking her.

There are little wonders in every corner of the street that Marinette never grows tired of finding, that pull her along in the subtlest undertow of curiosity until her current circles to the glittering cloud of flowers constellated against lush greenery, a nebulous nursery cradled in clear membrane.

Marinette swears the _Catmint Print_ grins even brighter at the sight of her, as if it knows her orbit will always bring her back around.  

The stem of gladiolus flowers sway at the top of her basket as she walks up to the front door where the ‘CLOSED’ sign remains still. Despite the deterrent, the glittering windows that carve out the recess for the door hold bundles of flowers collected together to form gold-gilded green arms welcoming her in. 

As the door gives way before her hand, Marinette suspects the place may never actually be closed. Or perhaps her timing has always just been lucky.

“Sorry, we're not open!” a familiar voice rings out as she steps in. Instinct places Adrien in the back, which she confirms when she finds no trace of him in the front.

“I come bearing gifts,” Marinette calls back as she picks her way to the part in the folding screen. The place feels utterly unchanged from when she was here the day before.

She wonders if Adrien was up the entire night as well.

“Marinette?” another voice demands incredulously, this one unexpected but not unfamiliar. Before Marinette has the chance to respond or to even cross the threshold into the back area, an abundance of nauseatingly bright yellow snaps right in her face with little ceremony. Standing at the exact same height with similarly striking blue eyes, Marinette can almost mistake the person in front of her to be a mirror image of herself, except in no universe could she ever look at Chloé Bourgeois and think they could be anything alike.

A mutual feeling, judging from the narrowing Chloé’s eyes. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” she enunciates, bordering between a greeting and an insult. “Are you lost?”

“Chloé,” Marinette returns. “You’re charming as ever. I’m just looking for Adrien.”

“What do you want with him?” Chloé asks. Her hands plant on her hips, shifting to fill the divide between the folding screens with the confrontation of her body.

Her aggressive stance is an old one that Marinette knows too well, but the way Chloé’s eyes linger at the basket hanging from her arms then flicker up in suspicion is new. Her fingers tap an impatient rhythm on her hips, long nails curving out like claws, as she protectively guards the way to the back, to Adrien.

If Marinette had known she was going to encounter a dragon, she would’ve armed herself with an extra cup of coffee beforehand.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Marinette says, “but I’ve got some food I’d like to give him. Croissant?” She pops the lid of her basket open in a gracious offering, carefully keeping the violet gladiolus far away.

“Adrien _is_ my business.” Chloé’s nose wrinkles at the buttery scent that rises up from the open basket. She doesn’t take any. “If you’re here for an autograph or a picture, leave before I call security.”

“Oh, I don’t believe this,” Marinette mutters. A spike of exhausted irritation sharpens her voice as she takes the kid gloves off. “I’m not a groupie, I’m not a stalker, I’m a _friend._ I’m not here to take anything from him, I’m just here to give him something.”

As Chloé leans in dangerously close, Nino’s words flag up in Marinette’s mind, holding back her rising hackles. As entitled and pushy as Chloé may be, her intense care for Adrien comes from an understanding place.

“He's happy here. Don't ruin that for him, or you'll have me to answer to.” The warning jabs out, sharp as a sword, and armed further with Chloé’s fierce glare. The concern and protectiveness in her voice is what digs under Marinette’s skin, what makes her wonder who is really the dragon here.

“Chloé? Is that Marinette?” Adrien’s voice wedges in between them, halting Marinette’s reply. He appears a moment later behind Chloé, but for all of his added height and broadness in frame, he stands a blithe calm compared to the crackle of Chloé’s energy. An enormous smile splits across his face as Marinette gives a little wave in greeting. “Hey! I didn’t know you were coming by today.”

“I didn’t know either, it just kind of happened.” Marinette grins sheepishly, ignoring the way Chloé crosses her arms as if barring herself closed. “If you’re busy, I can come another time.”

“You have perfect timing,” Adrien says. His eyes dart between her and Chloé in consideration as he reads the strings of tension. “I was gonna be left all by my lonely self. Isn’t your appointment coming up Chloé?”

“I can reschedule,” Chloé sniffs.

“Hey,” he says softly, waiting until Chloé turns to look at him. “I’ll be fine.”

His quiet does what Marinette’s ire could not. In just a breath, he tempers Chloé’s fire into smoke.

“Call me later,” Chloé insists to him before she turns back to Marinette with narrowed eyes. “I want to hear about _everything_.”

She sweeps out of the shop, her high ponytail snapping it behind her in a whip of molten gold. A tired exhale escapes from Marinette before she realizes it, prompting a wince from Adrien.

“Sorry,” he apologizes. “Chloé’s my oldest friend, but I know she can be kind of…”

“Hey, you don’t have to apologize for her,” Marinette says. “I’ve known her for a while too. My parents’ bakery caters for her sometimes and she got her very first tattoo from maman.”

The mention of tattoos draws Adrien’s eyes over to her shoulder. He slowly, thoughtfully drinks in the gleaming silver anemones sprawled over her shoulder 

“Is that one new?” he asks, his gaze intense. Hairs rise up along Marinette’s arm, as if reacting to a ghosting touch.

“Yeah,” she admits. The simple admission leaves her strangely vulnerable; but Adrien’s earnest smile is encouragement enough for her go a step further and reveal, “I did it last night.”

Her shoulder warms under his focus, an ache tickling through her anemones as if they turn under her skin to receive his attention. It must be a natural reaction, since they were inspired by the anemones he’d given her just the other day. She doesn’t know how he must feel about that. She doesn’t even know how _she_ feels about that.

“They look even better on you,” Adrien finally says, soft and wondering.

He never reaches to touch her, never does what she expects him to do. He doesn’t need to. The attraction burns the space between them, turns sight into touch.

“So,” Marinette starts, her mouth dry. She licks her lips as she holds her basket up, drawing Adrien’s eyes away from her shoulder and up to flushed freckled cheeks. “Hungry?”

For a dizzying second, Adrien leans a little closer.

“Maybe a little,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping again-

\- but Marinette blinks and he’s stepping back with the basket hanging from his arm, plucked from her hands. The crescent of his smile cheekily hooks up higher on one side at she attempts to swipe the basket back, only for her to narrowly miss smacking his chest as she misses. He plucks the gladiolus from the edge and offers it back to her in consolation, which she takes with a shake of her head.

“Light fingered thief,” Marinette laughs, lightheaded.

“I’m light on my feet too,” Adrien grins, nimbly stepping to the side and offering his free arm towards her. Smudges of dirt pepper his purple sleeve, an eerie echo of something that Marinette cannot place until sudden déjà vu reminds her of Alya.

There is no confrontation here though- only an open invitation.

“Shall we, then?” she accepts as she steps forward, loops her arm through his, and leads the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Alya's tattoos.](http://mmmatchaball.tumblr.com/post/139194135955)  
> [Juleka's tattoos.](http://mmmatchaball.tumblr.com/post/147309859875) (Side note, check out [kvebox's](http://kvebox.tumblr.com/) incredible art!!)  
> [Rose's back tattoo](http://mmmatchaball.tumblr.com/post/149286058325/1337tattoos-sergey-anuchin) and [arm tattoos.](http://mmmatchaball.tumblr.com/post/149286120225)
> 
> This chapter is, hilariously, only half of what I originally outlined and planned for it but it was getting so long that I had to split it up (which hopefully means a faster update!). 
> 
> I am so unbelievably sorry for taking nearly a month to update! Depression and anxiety paid an extended and unwelcome visit to me, which slowed my motivation and drive down to a speed a rock probably could've outpaced. I can't thank you guys enough for the amazing response last chapter though! It really blew me away, the amount of love that came through your comments, messages, tags, and art :') Every time I felt defeated, I'd look at all the support and pull myself together, in writing and in life. It seems like such a small thing, summed in in these few sentences, but every single message meant the world to me!!! Thank you, to each and every one of you again and again and again :')


	5. Snapdragons, for all is not as they seem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you to:  
> -the talented [larvesta](http://larvesta.tumblr.com/) for drawing Marinette [three](http://larvesta.tumblr.com/post/151717854504/inktober-day-12-for-matchaball-i-scanned), [times](http://larvesta.tumblr.com/post/151358053499/also-another-inking-indigo-i-forgot-to-post), [over](http://larvesta.tumblr.com/post/151260136454/ink-doodle-based-on-inking-indigo-by-matchaball)!  
> -the fabulous [qookyquiche](https://qookyquiche.tumblr.com/) for drawing [Marinette and Adrien](https://qookyquiche.tumblr.com/post/150541058020/if-you-feel-like-it-adrinette-with-10-d)!  
> -the immeasurable [kvebox](http://kvebox.tumblr.com/) for drawing [Marinette and her outfits](http://kvebox.tumblr.com/post/149326316310/okay-took-this-request-as-an-excuse-to-draw) (you're gonna get hugged SO HARD when I see you at CTN ♥)  
> -the lovely [little miss jolie](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4377561/) for drawing [Marinette](http://imgur.com/a/sWoLg)!

The floor washes up before their feet in a flood of light edged by cerulean shadows. On the far side, shutters unfurl their dark wings, revealing a row of monolithic arched windows standing proudly before them like sentinels. Long gold fingers stretch out from the glass to light upon beds of slumbering flowers, crowning each bud with a fiery halo.

"Whoa," Marinette breathes. She pulls away from Adrien, stepping slowly into a beam of sunlight. Each of her limbs feels weighted and yet each movement weightless, a sensation she's only known from swimming underwater. As she claims a space, dust swirls curiously around her in lazy loops, winking in and out of sight in glowing flickers.

The sun soaks into her skin, sinks through her roots, warms her from her very bones.

"Where are we?" Marinette asks drowsily as she closes her eyes against the bright glare. "Did we walk into Narnia?"

"Trust me, if I had that kind of power I would've used it ages ago," Adrien laughs. His voice sounds much closer than she expects. When she cracks an eye to peek to her side, it takes her a moment to find him in the light, his figure as sun soaked as hers.

"I've been coming here since before I can remember and I've never seen these magical windows," Marinette says, stretching her arms out. The heat twines around her like an affectionate cat. "What else are you hiding?"

"Alright, you caught me," Adrien sighs dramatically. A mischievous grin unfurls across his face. "This is my secret superpower: finding long lost windows to be opened."

She bursts out laughing. "That's pretty lame."

From her outstretched arms, her hands flex open and closed as if to catch the sun; they find nothing but the glittering dust. Warmth pools into her peonies until they seem to glow from her skin.

Marinette inhales. Her nose twitches. An impulse builds, and rises, and dissipates as she fights it down. Calm settles comfortably in her body.

Her nose twitches again before she explodes in a violent sneeze.

"Do your powers summon dust monsters too or- _ahchoo!_ " Another sneeze interrupts her midway, following up with two more as she tries to wave the dust away from her face.

Waves of laughter pour from Adrien as more dust kicks up around them instead in a glittering whirlwind. Smiles look at home on Adrien's face, if a little rehearsed and performed at times, but laughter transforms him into someone a little more spontaneous, a little more real.

The change is stunning.

"You sound like a trumpet," he snorts, succumbing to his laughter again as Marinette sneezes monstrously in response. "You-you're so small- how…?"

"You sound like Alya," Marinette pouts, but even she can't help giggling. His laughter is much too infectious. "I'm just full of surprises."

"I knew that before I even met you."

"What does that mean? I swear, if Nino's still telling that story about me and that all-you-can-eat buffet-"

"He hasn't," Adrien assures her, though she isn't entirely convinced as the corner of his mouth twitches dangerously in amusement. "I just mean, who doesn't know _Luck be A Lady_? Your work is everywhere, on everyone. I'm amazed that one person single-handedly tattooed the entirety of Paris."

"Three," Marinette corrects, rubbing her wrist self-consciously. "Not just me. Me, maman, Master Fu. But I haven't done as much compared them."

"But the stuff you _have_ done is incredible! I can always tell when it's your work." The rush of enthusiasm in Adrien's voice is unexpected, his excitement surprising considering the absence of his own tattoos. "There's something- magical about them. I can't really explain it, but your tattoos have this sort of magnetic pull to them. It makes it pretty hard to not touch everyone I see."

It's not often that Marinette can't find anything to say. Her gaping doesn't faze Adrien at all; if anything, he seems to brighten at her bewilderment. Marinette's eyes run over his face again and again, but she finds nothing to suggest his admiration to be anything less than genuine.

"I… uh…" is the only eloquent thing she can manage.

Undaunted, Adrien simply says, "It's easy to love your work. Your presence is giant."

_Giant_. Of all the ways she could've described herself, that had never crossed her mind. Her work is in the details, in the people, problem-solving wants to meet expectations. Her focus tunnel-visions into ink stitched into skin, into images and words unraveling to inform about the person underneath. Most times she only ever feels like a conduit for Tikki to work her magic through; but then again, it isn't Tikki that people thank at the end of the day.

Her throat unsticks. "Says the man with his face featured all around the world," Marinette laughs incredulously, her head spinning.

"I have help," he shrugs. "A _lot_ of it. With makeup, good lighting, and photoshop, anyone can have a pretty face. But not everyone can do what you do."

The sensation of weightlessness magnifies to a surreal nature. The last thing Marinette ever expected Adrien to be was a fan. A very attentive, dedicated, adoring fan. She subtly gives herself a hard pinch, expecting the scenario to pop before her eyes; but nothing changes. The light still bathes them both in gold, illuminating the way Adrien's eyes focus on the glittering anemones blooming on her shoulder.

There's something personal about the way he looks at her. The heat of the sun on her skin is nothing compared to his open gaze.

"Well if the flowers you've given me so far are supposed to sweeten me into revealing my secrets, then no such luck," Marinette jokes weakly.

"You've been getting flowers from here for years. At least I know they all go to a good home," Adrien chuckles.

"Maman loves this place but she can't come by as often so I go for her. She's the one who first brought me here, when I was little," Marinette admits, a smile pulling wide across her face at the memory. "Didn't remember the windows then either."

With a sigh, Adrien sets the basket down onto the floor. Dust aside, Marinette reasons that at the very least the heat of the light would keep the pastries inside warm. She watches him slowly unroll up to his full height. He has the sort of grace earned by someone who often tripped over gangly, growing limbs in their youth. The way he runs his knuckles along the edge of his jaw in thought strikes her as a gesture borrowed. The heavy silver ring on his finger winks at her as it passes through the light.

"Mother used to keep the windows open all the time when she ran the _Catmint Print_ ," Adrien says lightly. "It's what brought father to her in the first place."

"He has good taste," Marinette teases gently. "If you want to talk about things that have a magnetic quality, this is like, _the_ place."

"You keep coming back so obviously I'm doing something right," Adrien laughs. "Mother was always busy as a bee in this place. This used to all be an indoor garden, before we had to convert it to a flower shop. I used to play over there-" he gestures to the disused fountain, "-all the time."

Epiphany dawns on Marinette, making her gesture excitedly in understanding. "Is that what you're trying to do now? Turn this back area into a garden?"

"Ideally," Adrien admits, his small smile growing wider at her enthusiasm. "I remember there being so many butterflies here when I was younger. It was like I could touch a bush and it'd burst into a million wings."

"No wonder this place is always closed," Marinette realizes, piecing all the miscellaneous clues together. "No wonder you're always here. The flowers! I should've realized. Sage. Anemones. _Catmint_. It doesn't get any more obvious than plants specifically grown to attract and feed butterflies."

"Congrats." It could be the trick of the light but Marinette swears that his eyes are sparkling when he grins at her. "You solved me."

"Hardly," Marinette snorts. She squints up at him as a lingering question jumps through the hole that exhaustion has burned through her mind and right out of her mouth before she can think. "One thing I don't get is how you can be here for so long at all. Shouldn't you be jetting off to who knows where doing photoshoots or filming for a new movie?"

Her words echo back at her with startling familiarity; they ring through her head until she belatedly remembers that those had been Alya's words to begin with. Nino's voice follows up, reminding Marinette, " _What he told me was kind of personal. Not even for you will I spill my guts."_

Alya always said Marinette had a face like an open book, for better or for worse; so when Adrien looks at her, then blinks away, she hopes he finds her sincerity and concern clear to read.

"I want to quit; father doesn't want me to. This is the only compromise we could agree on… until one of us gives in, probably," Adrien admits heavily. There's a bitterness that lingers in the aftertaste of his words. "This is the one place he's never been able to change, even after mother left."

It's the truth, but she suspects that's not the entirety of it. Marinette doesn't push, even as Adrien casually answers the mystery that sparked wild rumours for years.

Alicia Agreste had _left_. Left her soulmate, who loved her as much as she loved him; left her son, who she had been inseparable from; left her nuclear family, the perfect fairytale, the happy ending. Her disappearance was decades ago, but the stress fracturing the corners of Adrien's eyes are much more recent.

"Your dad's crazy," Marinette says stoutly. Gabriel Agreste may be an iconic designer, but if he is the reason for the unforgiving shadows on Adrien's face, then he was nothing but an iconic _ass_.

Surprised laughter punches out from Adrien's gut at her blunt response. "For which part?"

"Take your pick," Marinette shrugs, grinning at his unexpected amusement. "You've probably got more reasons than me. Maybe enough to make yourself a million butterflies."

Adrien snorts before he tries to cover it up with unconvincing coughs, though his lack of answer is so much more telling than any other polite response he could've given. Marinette wishes she could make the weight he seems to carry vanish, but she settles for reaching up and squeezing his shoulder. The fabric bunches under her palm, warm from the heat of the sun, from the heat of his body.

It's easier, seeing him from the side. She finds better definition when he's not smiling like there's always the danger of a camera, when he's not acting like there's always someone else he's expected to be.

"I'm hatching them in my apartment," Adrien says. "The butterflies. Nino gets creeped out every time he comes over."

"If you've got a million of them, then I'm with him," Marinette shudders. The mental image looks like something out of a horror movie, sending a cold shiver down her spine.

"Even my place isn't big enough for that," Adrien chuckles lightheartedly. "But it's... a lot. It'd be worse if they were bees; mother loved them even more than she loved butterflies."

"You never got stung? Alya got stung once when we were kids and hasn't forgiven any bee since."

"Bees don't sting anyone who doesn't bother them. Mother gave me this ring too." Silver winks in the air as Adrien gestures with the hand bearing the heavy ring. Sunlight saturates the metal, turning it into a ring of light around Adrien's finger, though when his hand falls back to the shadow of his side, Marinette catches sight of the nicks and scratches across the wide band, marking its old age. The circular face set in the center rests a shade darker than the rest, as if absorbing the light rather than reflecting it. "She said it would be my good luck charm against harm, except I kinda feel like _I'm_ the one who usually ends up causing some sort of damage. But whenever I think I've lost it, it always somehow finds me again."

"Sounds like luck to me."

"Tell that to the bucket I broke earlier," Adrien sighs dramatically as he bends over to pick the basket up from the floor.

"I didn't say what kind of luck. And on the bright side, better the bucket than… say... your windows," Marinette throws out offhandedly as she shifts to follow the sunbeam on the floor, savouring the way heat roots into her veins.

"Oh no," he deadpans as he follows her, and she can just _hear_ the grin in his voice. "That would such a _pane_."

"I set myself up for that one didn't I," Marinette sighs, squinting up at Adrien. His face is only a blurred glow as he faces the window but when he turns to smile at her, shadows carve his face from the light.

"I couldn't miss a window of opportunity like that," Adrien agrees, chuckling as Marinette groans. "Would you like me to shutter up?"

Marinette's eloquent and mature response is to blow a cloud of dust up in his face. Adrien's ensuing sneeze only sends up more dust to glitter brightly in the sunbeam.

"There is only one kind of _pain_ worth talking about here and it's meant to be eaten," she informs him, tapping at the basket in his arms with the stem of her gladiolus.

He blinks owlishly at her, sunlight lancing through the clear green of his eyes. "Are you- is this really full of food?" he asks incredulously. "I thought that was just to pacify Chloé."

"She's a big girl, she can handle the truth," Marinette snorts. She tucks the gladiolus behind her ear before lifting the basket's lid up, revealing a dozen flaky croissants and numerous little quiche tarts nestled within. The savoury smell of butter and bread waft up, made heady by the heat, eliciting a hungry and appreciative hum from them both. "Besides, I don't joke about food. Like papa says: no _pain_ , no gain."

"A wise man," Adrien laughs. "With excellent taste in both jokes and food."

"I'll pass the compliment along," Marinette assures him with an amused roll of her eyes. "C'mon, you haven't lived until you've tried maman's quiche."

With the heat sinking through her skin and curling around her limbs, she wonders if she imagines the bittersweet longing on his face. He gestures in the next instant with a bright smile, and the moment flashes by too quick for her to catch.

It could be her sleep deprivation making things up. It could be him hiding in plain sight.

"I don't know about you but I've been standing for way too long," Adrien says as he steps out of the sun. Shadows wash over him in a wave of blue, gold cresting upon the edges of his form as he sweeps his hand to the table pushed against the partition. "After you?"

"Don't want to put some colour on that lily-white skin of yours?" Marinette teases, not budging an inch. She'd live in this sunbeam forever if she could, soaking in the warmth and light.

"Don't know if you can talk," Adrien returns, studying her intently. "I'm pretty sure your skin is lighter than mine."

"Wait 'til my freckles attack," Marinette sighs, rubbing fingers along her cheeks. She idly brushes across the bridge of her nose in memory. "They swarm in the summer. I look like I got into papa's cocoa powder again."

"You'd make an adorable pastry." It's hard to tell with the sunlight flooding her vision, but Marinette's fairly sure Adrien's sporting a cheeky smile on his face at the embarrassing and unfortunately accurate imagery.

"You're trying to bait me into moving," she declares.

"I would _never_ ," Adrien protests much too innocently, chuckling as she snorts.

Slowly, deliberately, Marinette stretches her arms up high, fingertips reaching to the ceiling, before releasing with an enormous sigh that sinks her entire weight down into the anchors of her feet. Tension releases in a rush, making her ears ring faintly in warning before her head spins.

_Rest_ , her body begs. If she could, she'd grow roots through the soles of her feet and plant herself right at home.

With flowers opened wide upon on her body, the notion feels viscerally real for a moment.

"Ok," Marinette says, and she's not sure if she's responding to Adrien or herself. "Ok."

Motion tugs her body forward before thought, leading her into the shady shallows beside Adrien. Once moving, she doesn't stop as she arrows purposefully for the table.

She selects a chair and plonks herself down at the edge. As Adrien sits beside her and sets the basket on the only available space on the table, she raises an eyebrow in question at the enormous stems of snapdragons that stretch out long and plentiful across the rest of the table in a riot of sunset colours.

"Kicked their bucket," Adrien grins. "Get it? Kicked the bucket, like-"

"I just want you to know," Marinette interrupts with a heavy sigh, "that this sigh isn't because you make puns. It's because you make _awful_ puns."

"I'll just need to keep practicing then!" Adrien concludes cheerfully. He laughs in the face of Marinette's muttered, "Oh boy."

He draws a long stem laden with crimson blooms towards him before presenting it to Marinette. Before she can say or do anything, he selects a bud with his fingers and gently squeezes it, prompting the dragon's maw to drop.

"I could _snap_ you right up," the flower snarls in a comically high voice as Adrien puppeteers its mouth.

Marinette seizes the challenge and whips out the violet gladiolus from behind her ear, brandishing it before her like a sword. Adrien's face lights up as he takes up a similar stance. Even as he wields the three foot long stalk of his snapdragon, Marinette smirks as she grips her foot-long gladiolus confidently.

"En guarde," she challenges.

Adrien strikes first but Marinette is hardly swayed by the light jab he doles out. She bats the snapdragons easily aside and reaches out to slap him on the arm, laughing as he renews his efforts with more vigour. His next return rains crimson petals onto her hair as he sweeps up and taps the top of her head.

She goes for the direct attack and shoves her gladiolus right in his face.

"Touché!" Adrien sputters as he spits violet petals out.

"Though I be but little, I am fierce," Marinette announces, taking entirely too much glee in pinning his long stalk of snapdragons onto the table with her gladiolus. "Hah!"

"This isn't even close to fencing."

"Is that what we're doing?" Marinette hooks up a mischievous smirk at him. "I'm merely defending myself against a great and terrible dragon."

"Why is the dragon always terrible?" Adrien sweeps his snapdragons from under her, trailing loose petals in his wake. It twirls in his hands to stand vertical in the air, the tip swaying before bowing forward. "What if he- or she- just wants to be friends?"

Though asked lightly, Marinette recognizes the double meaning in his words. Or she thinks she does. She stares at Adrien for a long moment, trying to decipher if he's pulling her tail. Exhaustion clouds her judgement and fails to give her an answer.

"You know that's not how the story usually goes?" she finally points out, falling back on logic.

His somewhat sheepish smile softens his face into something younger, something hopeful. "I like happy endings."

She's beginning to sense a theme. "Idealist," Marinette teases.

"If that's the title my lady wishes to bestow on me," Adrien shrugs, setting his snapdragons gently down. Despite his care, petals shake loose to dot the surface of the table.

With his defenses completely lowered, Marinette can't resist sneaking in one more tap against his nose.

"I win," she declares playfully as the tip of her gladiolus sweeps gently across his cheekbone. As his nose twitches at the ticklish sensation, she continues blithely, "Killing a dragon isn't a great tactical move anyway. I'd prefer to ride it and have it be my steed."

"A bold move," Adrien comments, blowing the gladiolus away from his face. She allows it to topple from her fingertips and fall into the nest of snapdragons, scattering violet petals in its wake.

"I like to be on top," Marinette says.

The innuendo catches up to her a split second later and she can't say why her first instinct is to rub her shoulder, her fingertips tracing silver flowers. Ointment slicks her touch, making her fingers glisten in the light as she self-consciously drops her hand. The movement attracts Adrien's attention, drawing his focus unerringly onto her tattoos.

She expects him to reach out, to touch her. His gaze is nearly tangible already, raising goosebumps along her heated skin. Touching is always people's first instinct when seeing a new tattoo, as if contact calcifies belief.

He wants to. She can see it.

A small, dangerous part growing inside her is curious enough to wish he did.

"I can't offer a dragonback ride, but I can at least get plates for our food." Adrien pushes back from the table and stands. Marinette resists the temptation to blurt out a more suggestive response to see if she could incite a more flustered response. "Do you want anything to drink?"

"If you have coffee-" a yawn interrupts her right on cue, "-I'd love you forever. Water's good too though."

He snaps his head around to look back at her, green eyes glittering bright as a cat.

"I have coffee," Adrien promises. His hand rises up, ring glinting as his palm curves to cup around her shoulder, before stuttering to a halt as he refrains from touching the silver anemones. Laughing uncertainly, he awkwardly transitions to rubbing his knuckles along his jaw. His ring winks in laughter as it runs back and forth. "I'll be right back."

A hum of acknowledgment from Marinette follows Adrien as he disappears between the divide in the partitions. It takes her a few moments of listening to puzzle out where he went. She makes a mental note to sneak in an extra bag of coffee grounds by the front desk the next time she comes over.

"Nino hates that I even have all this stuff here," his voice floats back over to her, muffled from the screen. "He says I'd stay in here forever without ever needing to go home."

"The first thing Alya did when we took over the studio was get a decent coffee maker," Marinette recalls. "We're both zombies without it."

"You seem to be doing ok."

Marinette's hum is a partial groan as she rests her elbows up on the table and props her head up with her hands. She'd managed pretty well considering she only got a few scant hours of sleep the night before and a single thermos of coffee to keep her functioning. Chloé even injected a rather strong shot of adrenaline earlier in her usual confrontational manner.

Sitting down was the mistake.

A vaguely horizontal surface goes a long way for someone who has the talent of falling asleep anywhere at anytime, particularly when incredibly sleep-deprived. The snapdragons' heavy fragrance mingling with the heady aroma of baked goods lay a heavy blanket over Marinette's shoulders, as warm and familiar as if she were at home.

"What's a group of dragons called anyway?" Marinette murmurs sleepily, her fingers tangling into crimson maws. Soft tongues brush curiously, soothingly against her skin.

"A dragoon, maybe," Adrien suggests. "Hah, a dragoon of dragons, you should try saying that five times fast. Or…" The rest of his answer trails off as he comes back, two mugs balanced on plates and napkins in his hands.

Cushioned against her arms and crowned by the cloud of snapdragons, Marinette greets him with a soft snore. Her tattoos blend with the bouquet of flowers cradling her, her yellow dress bright as a sun. If not for her snores and the bead of drool threatening to roll down her chin, she's as picturesque as a fairytale princess.

The plates set down silently on top of the basket and the mugs light down onto the table with a quiet knock. The sound freezes Adrien into a pause, but Marinette does nothing more than murmur something nonsensical before nuzzling more comfortably against her arms.

Adrien's movements are slow as he unknots his apron and lifts the marigold fabric away from his body. He drapes it carefully over Marinette's shoulders, tucking in the loose strings so they won't tickle her. As his ring passes over her shoulder, a small shock jumps into his hand, jerking him back in surprise.

Marinette slumbers on, seemingly unaffected and unaware.

Adrien relaxes; it was likely just static electricity, nothing more.

 

* * *

 

Hunger is a funny thing, hollowing out her stomach and leaving her jaw aching, tender. It's Marinette's single, prevailing focus, which should've been odd, given the expansive field filled with extraordinary flowers she finds herself in but- well.

Logic works differently in dreams, if it works at all, so Marinette doesn't question it.

The flowers make a little more sense; they carpet the ground for as far as she cares to see, glittering in jewel bright sunset colours. They're rich and fragrant enough to appear mouthwateringly delicious, but she merely closes her eyes, inhales deeply, and tilts her head up to soak in the sun.

There's a tentative sort of peace she finds here. The quiet that prevails is both relaxing and anticipatory, as if the air is holding its breath.

"Hey stranger," a soft voice sounds above her.

When Marinette opens her eyes, there is Adrien, leaning down over her, his hair a halo of soft light, of pale gold. There is something about his face that she can't quite make out, that she can't directly look at.

She doesn't question this either; it makes its own sort of sense. One shouldn't look straight on at the sun.

Despite that, she knows his eyes are kind. They are always kind, even as she knows, too, that there is something burning behind them, here. A thought, maybe, or a wish, or a confession.

"Are you hungry?"

It is a question that wins, and despite the quiet of his voice, it ignites the smouldering simmer at the bottom of her belly once more. The hunger presses into the expanse of her stomach, restless and needy.

"Yes," Marinette admits.

She cranes her neck up towards him, to his warmth. There is movement, in her peripherals, but she can already feel what is happening. Just as she grows towards him, so do the flowers all around her. All the brightly jeweled blooms extend their thread-slender necks up, up, up, the petals around their faces unfurling.

"Let me help you," Adrien says. His smile is more a baring of teeth, like the greeting of one wild animal to another. "I only want to be the sun for you."

Panic crawls up from her hunger like a vine, creeping between her ribs and strangling her lungs. It happens in an eyeblink, and even though she can't speak, there is an unshakeable certainty that the fear that steals her voice is for _him_.

"Is it enough?" another voice sighs, and even though Marinette has never heard it before in her life, it rings a chord within her, echoing like a familiar heartbeat. "Is he strong enough?"

"We shall see," another voice whispers. "I shall see."

As more voices join in, the sunset of flowers shifts; the honeyed yellows and burnt oranges deepen until every bloom is crimson. Petals overlap as they grow, hardening until Marinette can see herself in the scales. Jaws open as dragons blossom up around them, fangs gleaming, eyes glinting. They slowly rise to converge onto Adrien, framing the sun of him until he is surrounded.

Marinette is afraid for him, because they are all _her_. Variations, of different lives- but all, one soul. _Her_ soul.

Adrien doesn't look away from her, even as each dragon's jaw opens wide. They close in on the gold of his hair, the light of his face, but for how intensely he gazes at her, that burning look in his eyes, the world could be just them. Just her, and him.

"I'm not afraid," Adrien says to her, softly. "Are you?"

His eyes, green as spring and plants and growth, are the last Marinette sees before the tide of dragons overwhelms him in a soundless rushing crash. Light escapes their jaws in fragmented slivers, burning Marinette's throat as she feels it all swallowed down to join the churning feeling in her stomach. Pressure builds within her, but what escapes first are tears, hot with horror at shattering someone who only wanted to help her.

This, the deepest root of all her fears. She's never wanted him or anyone to know how it feels to break with the immensity of her.

The churning swells, growing and coming up through her lungs like fire- no, like burning- no, like-

_Lighting_ erupts out of her, escaping her aching, tender jaw in an earth shattering roar.

There is nothing gold, nothing gentle about this light; it is all searing white silver, explosive, and destructive. It should break her, but the seed lightning within her seeks out the roots of her body instead, sinking into her veins and finding a way to grow. Marinette can feel it, humming dangerously under her skin, leaving her teetering on the dangerous balance between exhilaration and terror. Heat and pain lances straight through her, far deeper and far more intimate than anything she's known. She can feel the threads searching, finding the earth, the ground, the home within her to sink into.

Sweat builds as Marinette fights to maintain control, to find equilibrium. She can't find it, she can't quite feel _whole_ like she knows she is supposed to- for what is a dragon without fire?- so she simply tries harder, with that infamous stubbornness and single-minded focus she's known for.

There is a little voice at the back of her head, soft but insistent. _Let go_ , he says. _Just let go_.

_I can't_ , Marinette chokes as the burning grows. _I- I don't know how_.

The realization instantly bottoms out her stomach and suddenly there is no ground, there is no place for the lightning to go but _out_. The dragons around her scream in all her many voices as the field goes up in flames, turning vibrant green into burning red.

All that tentative peace crumbles to ruin, to ash.

 

* * *

 

When Marinette jerks awake, her head shoots up from her arms. Her vision spins round and round in a dizzying whirl until she's ready to fall back on her face to escape the disorientation.

She tries to stand but the head rush blinds her vision in nauseating white. For a frightening moment, she has no idea where she is or what day it is.

Claws hook into her lungs and steal her breath away, leaving her dizzy with vertigo. A hammering beat registers itself, pounding fiercely in her ears, reverberating through her body, and her heart roars up against the shell of her ribcage like-

"Thunder," Marinette whispers. "A thunder of dragons."

"Hey." A voice breaks through her haze, warm and striking as light. "Marinette. Hey, are you ok?"

It's a good question, and not one she has an answer to. Her head aches fiercely as her hands come up instinctively to clutch at the fabric slipping down her shoulders. As she draws it close around her, awareness slowly catches up, placing her more firmly in reality.

It's a shaky hold. She turns her gaze to the fabric held in her fingers as if she could find an answer within its folds, and is confused by the marigold colour that she finds instead. She follows a dangling string down to her lap and finds even more yellow there.

Marinette wonders if _she_ became the sun.

Panic balloons in her chest as her mind skips back to her dream and the dragons converging in an overwhelming tide. She remembers burning. But in the midst of that, she remembers something gentle and nurturing. Something green, and kind.

"Hey." Adrien's voice quietly threads through her disjointed thoughts. "Take it easy. I've got you."

His gloved hands wrap around her shoulders comfortingly, his fingers spanning over her back like wings. There are enough layers between his skin and her tattoos that she feels nothing but the slight pressure of his weight, bridging to the warmth of his presence.

Adrien frames her space, cups himself around her in a way that protects and also respects her boundaries. He's always been so careful about that. He takes his cues from her, which is why she doesn't think twice about reaching up in the space between them to his hair, drawn to the beads of water misted along the edges. A blurry halo of light hovers just before her fingertips.

His eyes, green and luminous, watch her movements intently. Marinette half expects him to bolt or to purr.

"Was it raining?" she asks, her tired mind sluggishly missing the dots to connect. There had been lightning after all. Thunder still drums in her chest.

"Accident with the sprinkler system," Adrien admits. "I had to drop what I was holding when I ran to turn it off."

His sigh draws her gaze down the smears of dirt across his shirt. She follows a trail of breadcrumbs down to his pants where it takes her several very long moments to realize that she is, embarrassingly, staring at his crotch once more, and that he's missing-

"Your apron," Marinette realizes.

"Gave it up for a worthy cause." His gloved hands tug the edges of the fabric around her shoulders and the pieces finally fall into place.

Her eyes close in an attempt to refocus herself, but despite the catnap she just took, the action only invites her to succumb to sleep once again. She's tempted. The few hours of sleep in the past two days leave her bone tired, and the alarmingly vivid dreams- nightmares?- she finds when she does sleep is not at all restful.

Exhaustion sharpens her anxiety and amplifies her irritation. Marinette inhales, slowly, deeply, and tries to anchor herself to the fragrance of flowers instead.

It's Adrien, she realizes. The flower shop too, but also him. He doesn't smell like she expects him to: no expensive cologne, no chemical hairspray, nothing that would mark him as the lauded celebrity that she knows him to be.

He smells a little more like earth, a little more like rain. A little more human than she anticipates.

Marinette tugs the apron closer around her shoulder as she unconsciously leans into him. Another inhale brings the scent of dirt and flowers once more. But underneath, faint enough to be nearly indiscernible, faint enough that she wonders if she's imagining it, lies an underlying tang of metal, of heat.

It reminds of her of storms, and lightning, and fire, burning.

"Are you feeling ok?" Adrien asks, leaning into her as well. "You look like you might have a fever."

"I'm fine," Marinette snaps. Her tattoos bristle on her skin at his proximity, as if tasting the air and finding it charged.

Her effect is immediate; Adrien drops away, and the loss of his heat leaves her cold. Before she can apologize or explain herself, he takes a mug from the table and pushes it into her hands.

"You'd be more fine if you rested up in an actual bed somewhere," Adrien counters firmly. "You don't look so good."

"Flatterer," Marinette mutters. Petulance never looks good on her, but it's a knee-jerk reaction whenever she's called out on something. To cover her pout, she glances at the mug, finds water instead of the coffee she hoped for, and resigns herself to taking a sip.

"Only if it'll get you into bed," Adrien says, looking pleased as she downs the mug. As she chokes, he colours at his words and backtracks hurriedly, "Not in- I mean-"

"Pretty bold of you," Marinette teases despite the bright red of her face. She chances a glance at him and finds his cheeks similarly flushed. "But the quickest way to the heart is through the stomach."

She can't help but laugh as Adrien's face reddens further when she looks pointedly at the partially opened basket next to her. Crumbs and leftover quiche crust on a plate implicate him further.

"Bread-er believe it," Adrien jokes, chuckling as Marinette thunks her head down on the table with a groan. "Seems like you're better at buttering me up."

"As the daughter of two bakers, you won't have any jokes that I haven't heard before," Marinette says, her voice muffled by the table beneath her. Her head lolls to the side as she presses her cheek against the cool wood, soothing her headache. "I know them all."

"Ah, but you don't know _me_ ," Adrien grins.

Fatigue peels her levity away, leaving behind a lingering thought that she can't shake.

"I don't," Marinette admits. She looks up at him and frowns in quiet thought. "But why does it feel like I've always known you anyway?"

Adrien tilts his head in question at her before slowly sitting down in his chair. The thought in his clear green eyes reassures her that she's not crazy, that at some level, he understands.

"You've been coming here for a long time right?" Adrien reasons. "Maybe we knew each other, before."

Reasonable and logical, but not exactly what she meant. There's a compulsion to Adrien Agreste that's familiar, as if 'before' isn't from knowing each other as children, but knowing each other from a time ago, in another life. There is an easiness with him that suggests they are very, very old friends.

"Right," Marinette murmurs. "From… before."

She knows, that pride and confidence sometimes has her walking through life with her fists up, ready to prove herself, ready to fight for what she thinks is right. Except Adrien never does what she expects, and her first instinct isn't to throw a punch but to uncurl her hands and accept his.

It spooks her.

Marinette's never needed anyone else to help her, never wanted it; she is proud of how capable she is, how she will always find the solution. Except each time they meet catalyzes a change she doesn't expect, a decision she's not sure is entirely hers. There is a lack of control she experiences with his person that is so far removed from the surety of every other body that she's touched.

Her peonies prickle upon her hypersensitive skin. Her hands curl with the intense desire to cradle Tikki, to gain that control back.

"You know," Marinette blurts out, "I actually don't feel too great, you're right. I think maybe I will go back."

"Oh, ok." Adrien rises automatically from his seat and hovers uncertainly. "Want me to call Alya? Or bus with you?"

"No!" Her response is lightning quick and too sharp. Stifling a noise of frustration at herself, she softens, "No, it's- I'm totally fine. I'm ok on my own."

The look on Adrien's face tells her he's not entirely convinced, but this time he doesn't push. "If you're sure…"

"Yup. Absolutely. Definitely," Marinette insists as she stands. She should've known what would happen, but the sudden head rush still takes her by surprise as her vision spins and her ears ring. Her head pounds angrily at her carelessness.

Then as suddenly as it comes, it goes. Her ears still ring and her heart still thunders, but Marinette catches herself by the table and straightens up before Adrien can brace her. His outstretched hands, gloved in soft butter yellow stained brown with dirt, drift out of reach from the peonies on her wrist but she steps further away from his touch.

"Totally got this," Marinette repeats. "Look how how much I've got this."

Determined, she spins around on her heel and strides to the front. Despite her speed, Adrien catches up easily, his long legs eating up the ground in his haste to follow her. In the light, sun-soaked day that greets them both, Marinette sighs as the heat wraps comfortingly around her before it sinks into her head and lances straight through her headache. She winces, her fingers tightening on the edges of the apron around her shoulders until her knuckles glare white.

"I could call a taxi," Adrien suggests, looking over her in concern as his hand rests on the front door. "Don't worry about paying, I can cover it."

"My place isn't far; I'm good walking," Marinette counters stubbornly. Dimly, her mind wails at the missed opportunity but pride muffles it in an instant. "Thanks for the company. Sorry I fell asleep on you."

"Hey." Adrien softens in that instant, his smile understanding. "You work hard. Just remember to take care of yourself… but thanks for taking the time to see me."

His quiet gratitude pulls Marinette out of her head to really look at him, with his kind green eyes riveted on her and his eagerness to help the moment she even thinks of asking something, anything from him.

"Anytime," Marinette replies without hesitation. "I'm always happy to see you."

His face lights up in nuances, from the smile that tucks up all the way to the corners of his cheeks, to the curve of his eyebrows as they lift up. Marinette is momentarily dazzled. If she knew those words would make Adrien glow so warmly, she'd say them all the time to him.

"I'm always happy to see you too," he chuckles. His hand pushes and the door opens. "And just this once, I'm happier to see you leave. You sure you're not going to pass out getting home?"

"I'll be fine," Marinette assures as she breezes by him and through the door. A few steps out prompts her to look back where she spots Adrien leaning against the door and watching her progress.

"Still fine!" she calls as she walks backwards down the sidewalk. A startled yell jolts her attention around, catching her just in time to narrowly dodge a collision with an old man and then a mother pushing a stroller; pure luck and unexpected grace keeps her on her feet, and the pedestrians safe from her inattention.

When she's steady again, she can see Adrien laughing even as he falls back to reopen the door to head back inside. It doesn't surprise her that he instinctively moved forward to help her; if anything, she appreciates having someone to watch her back.

Marinette catches his eye before sending a double thumbs up. Before she can cause any more accidents, she turns back around, refocuses her attention to the direction of home, and resolutely goes forth, even as a feeling in her gut tugs her back to the flower shop, back to Adrien.

Of the hundreds of people that she's met and touched, how is he any different? She only knows that getting close to Adrien brings her peace and pain, and it's a coin's toss as to how which way the balance will tip.

Marinette doesn't have any answers; but she knows a place that just might. It's been awhile since she's visited home, and her parents' advice has never failed her before.

A tickling on her arm draws her attention to the apron string waving in the breeze, prompting two exasperating realizations.

_I should return Adrien's apron and get maman's basket back._

Marinette groans tiredly before she trips and almost faceplants down the metro steps.

_But first... sleep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿ We meet again! 
> 
> I'm so sorry for how long this chapter took me! School started up for me again about a month ago and I've been preparing for a significant animation conference happening in November (if you're also going to CTN, let me know! :D).
> 
> This was actually meant to go in an entirely different direction until I realized halfway that it wouldn't work at all; I scrapped, I rewrote, I scrapped again. Then I had to go back to the entire outline of the story and replan everything from this chapter out... so it was a confusing time, to say the least! I wouldn't be surprised if this chapter reflects a lot of that indecision; I wrote this in so many chunks and scraps stitched together that I had a difficult time maintaining clarity and coherency. So please, definitely let me know if you find anything confusing!
> 
> Happy reading, and thank you for the amazingly supportive and kind messages from last chapter :')
> 
> **EDIT 09/23/2017:** Rewrote the dream and polished some bits that were really annoying me.


	6. Lupines, for the truth in imagination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a very long while, and I’m so terribly sorry about that! Life happened, as it does. To those of you who stuck around so very patiently and continue to enjoy this story, thank you, thank you, _thank you_ :’) 
> 
> (I also recommend re-reading chapter 5, as I’ve rewritten a bit of it to fit better with the story!)

It takes Marinette a few weeks to find the time to visit her parents' place for the weekend. She has sleep to catch up on, a dozen clients to tattoo, a myriad of teases and questions from Alya to answer (or dodge), and an uneasy curiosity growing in the pit of her stomach to poke at.

Her overactive imagination feeds her curiosity without reserve as her thoughts inevitably turn back to Adrien, soaked in sunlight and covered in flowers. For how soft he seems, she doesn't know why his touch is so sharp upon her nerves. Why his presence lingers in her skin long after, a buzzing that sits close to her bones.

It's a little familiar, that sensation. Growing up immersed in gymnastics and track makes fatigue a familiar friend; pain, even more so, though it was never cuts or bruises or blisters that bothered her. Sometimes, an ache would build, then knot in an elusive hiding place on her body. Marinette spent hours absentmindedly prodding her muscles and joints, seeking bruises she couldn't see but only feel.

They were never where she expected them to be. It'd be the spot beneath her wrist bone. The spot on her side, right along a rib. The spot on her shin, off center. She was always covered in them, phantom black under the flushed red of her skin.

Adrien's impact leaves a similar mark on her, somehow. Visiting him sporadically at the flower shop in the past few weeks helps prod different spots in her, but a recent influx of clients wanting new tattoos keeps their meetings brief and their friendship confined to texts. It's not the same, but the distance helps her think.

She'd find the spot, wherever the curiosity has planted itself within her.

"Something the matter, Mari-berry?" Tom's easygoing voice breaks through her thoughts effortlessly. The childhood nickname transforms her to a kid of six, small pudgy hands mushing fondant like clay, instead of a young woman with strong, capable hands currently slamming bread dough relentlessly into submission on the kitchen table.

"A lot on my mind, papa," Marinette admits, grimacing as she unsticks her fingers from the goopy pile of dough. "It's just been a busy month."

Tom levels a considering gaze at his daughter, before taking in the number of pastries crowded on every available surface of the kitchen. Three intricately decorated pies rest on the small round table like plates set out for dinner. Cupcakes frosted to look like roses bloom across the plains of the countertops. Even little turtles made of matcha bread with chocolate crackled shells peek out over the top of the microwave and the fridge.

Marinette only ever baked so much when she was stressed or thoroughly preoccupied with a problem. Her hands could never stay still for long.

Tom asked, "Anything you want to share with your old pa?"

"You're not old," Marinette counters immediately, the words jumping out from age-old habit. The trick works though, and Tom's answering chuckle prompts a smile to rise on her face. She sprinkles more flour onto the kitchen table, picks up the slab of dough, and slams it down again. As she folds the dough over and lifts it up to smack down, she adds, "It's nothing, I think. Won't Louis and Camille need you downstairs?"

"My assistants can manage ten minutes without me, especially when you look like you're beating the air out of your dough instead of adding it. What has that bread ever done to you?"

"Nothing," Marinette mutters. "Absolutely nothing."

The frustration in her voice is much more telling than her words. Sensing that he was getting close, Tom guesses, "If it's not the bread, is it about your tattoos?" As Marinette's head shoots up to stare at him, eyes wide like she's been caught in headlights, he laughs, "I might not've noticed when you first got your ears pierced, but I can sure see the new ink on your shoulder."

Marinette's hand lifts automatically to cover the white anemones capping her shoulder. Her fingers press down on the deep blue centers, feeling for that bruise.

"I feel all- jittery," Marinette admits, searching for the right words. "Like... like I've got growing pains again."

"Maybe you'll finally be taller than me," Tom chortles, merely laughing away the blob of bread dough that Marinette smears onto his cheek. "Growing pains eh? Maybe your body is getting used to having new tattoos?"

"I've never heard of that happening before." Marinette's frown focuses on her pile of dough as she throws it down in thought. "Did you ever get pains?"

"Not that I can recall," Tom says. He hums and strokes his mustache as he thinks, planting his elbow solidly on the table to bare the pillar of his forearm.

No one has tattoo sleeves quite like her papa. Marinette's childhood is stitched onto his skin in outlines of dragonflies, astronaut dogs, twirling dancers, dinosaurs, and masked heroes. His tattoos came to life in a completely unique way. Under the patient colouring of her markers and wandering narration of her imagination, they'd become so vibrant that they seemed to move. They never actually did, but Tom would bear her artistic masterpieces with such pride and humour that it never mattered. He enjoyed entertaining curious customers with the stories she made up.

The drawings sit on his skin now, still and empty. Marinette always wondered how his tattoos would react if his soulmate ever did touch them. Would they colour themselves in with his soul, like she once did for him with her markers?

She wonders if they'd ever find out, but the curiosity is faint and fleeting. Tom loved her colourings as much as any effect he'd get from a true soulmate. He called her artistic efforts perfect, and perfect his tattoos have always been to her ever since.

"Your first tattoo never gave you any trouble?" Marinette asks.

The tattoo sleeves came after she was born, but the laurel leaves inked across his collarbones were Tom's first. These are solid black, stark and strong against his skin- a tattoo he'd gotten on a whim, but grew into as he realized his ambitions as a successful baker and pastry chef.

"Nope," Tom chuckles, tapping his collarbone. "I remember this one. I wanted to be outside with my friends instead of sitting in that chair waiting to be stabbed over and over again by a tiny little needle."

Marinette bursts out laughing, lifting fingers covered in flour and bread dough to poke at his arm over and over in a mocking imitation.

"It's not that bad!"

"It took _forever_ ," Tom sighs dramatically, playing up the memory. "Master Fu was slower than a turtle. So no, I never got pains, but I sure was scared of growing old in that chair."

"If you'd gotten old, Master Fu would've been a fossil," Marinette laughs. She slaps the ball of dough down on the table, applying the proper amount of force this time.

Tom nods in approval. "It would've matched _his_ tattoos at the very least."

He watches Marinette knead the dough, hands ever in motion, before motioning for her to move over. As she relinquishes her task with a puzzled expression, Tom takes over, expertly folding the dough over and continuing the process.

Before Marinette can protest the loss of her bread, Tom says, "Anyway, if it's tattoo problems you're having, maybe try talking to your mom." Correctly interpreting her stubborn silence, he comments, "You can't avoid the problem forever."

"I'm not avoiding," Marinette protests. "I'm… I'm thinking."

"About?"

A frown furrows Marinette's brow as she looks up at him; in the blue of her eyes, he can see a dozen thoughts soaring by, her mind somewhere far away where he can't reach.

"About why something hurts," she says slowly. Then, quietly, like a thought she meant to keep to herself but escaped in her exhale, "Why do I hurt?"

It's jarring and not just a bit upsetting that the normally cheerful and confident shine to Marinette's bright eyes are shadowed by an uncertainty and just a hint of fear that Tom doesn't understand. It makes her look paradoxically both much younger and older- and for a frightening moment, Tom doesn't recognize the young woman in front of him.

Who is his little girl growing up to become?

"If what hurts?" Sabine asks, her voice floating ahead of her steps as she comes down the stairs from Marinette's old bedroom. The question had been at the tip of Tom's tongue too.

A ripples of emotion pass through Marinette's face as she tries to define her issue, but in the end, she simply points to her new tattoos. The pleading look Marinette gives Sabine is one Tom hasn't seen since Marinette was a little girl, forever asking her parents for answers to the million and one questions she had burning in her precocious mind.

"I see," Sabine says gently. Tom's glad at least one of them apparently does. He can't make heads or tails of what Marinette's trying to say. "Who is it?"

Marinette reddens. "A new friend." She reddens even more, the freckles staining her nose like sunspots, as Sabine smiles knowingly.

There was a leap of understanding taken that saw Sabine to the other side where Marinette was waiting, but Tom is still stuck across the divide. He glances between his two girls before decisively collecting the bread dough into his hands.

"I'll finish this downstairs." He motions with glob in his hands as Sabine and Marinette look over to him. Confusion creases into the corners of Marinette's puzzled frown but it's Sabine's single nod that encourages him to leave rather than stay. "I can't help with your pain, but I can definitely help you with your _pain_."

Laughter lights the room as Sabine chuckles and Marinette groans good-naturedly at his pun. Tom leaves on that note, carrying Marinette's lighthearted smile with him rather than the fear that had turned her into a stranger. His faith in Sabine's ability to help her though, is absolute. He knew it the moment she walked in the room and only needed to ask a single question.

Just like Sabine, to get right to the heart of the matter.

"So, a new friend," Sabine comments as she fills the kettle with water for tea. She delicately maneuvers around the dozens of baked goods Marinette's crammed onto every available surface. "It wouldn't happen to be someone from the _Catmint Print_ now, would it?"

Marinette looks more resigned than surprised at her mother's intuition. "Alya told you, didn't she."

"I don't need Alya to tell me there's someone special when you've always come back from that store with a smile on your face and more flowers than you paid for. But not just a smile," Sabine observes, reaching over and cupping Marinette's cheek gently. "You're uneasy about something."

Sabine's hand falls away as Marinette moves to take a seat by the counter. Marinette's fingers find the peonies tattooed on her wrist, smoothing over them thoughtfully.

"Why do we need tattoos?" Marinette eventually asks.

The kettle whistles into the air, giving Sabine a moment to think about her answer as she pours two mugs of tea.

"It's to let the soul breathe," she says slowly as she sets a mug down in front of Marinette. "A tattoo is like opening a window."

"A window works both ways," Marinette points out as she wraps her hands around the ceramic. "You can reach out and someone could reach in."

"Yes," Sabine concedes. "That's how we find our soulmates. In that way, tattoos are also an invitation."

"For a human connection," Marinette clarifies.

"Yes."

Quiet falls over them as Marinette turns a thought over in her mind.

"So what does it mean," she finally says, "if someone doesn't have any tattoos?"

"Oh, that's simple," Sabine smiles as Marinette takes a sip from her mug. "They haven't got a soul then."

" _Wha-!_ " Marinette chokes, nearly spitting her tea out. She groans as Sabine starts laughing.

"My darling, you think too much here-" Sabine knocks on Marinette's head "-and not enough here." She taps Marinette's heart and smiles fondly.

"You and papa," Marinette finally laughs, shaking her head. "I'm gonna get you back good for that someday."

"Someday," Sabine chuckles indulgently. "But someone who doesn't have a tattoo? Like a child?"

"No, my age," Marinette corrects. The cup twirls in her hands as she thinks.

"Hmm." Sabine taps her chin in thought. "I've only heard of very rare cases like that. Like I said, tattoos let your soul breathe- and I mean that literally. It balances out the yin and yang within the body and self. We take the dark within us- the yin- and give it light and colour- the yang."

"The souls are dark?" Marinette asks as she sits up straight and leans forward with vivid curiosity. "This sounds a little like magic."

"Maybe," Sabine laughs. "It's what I learned from Master Fu, and he from his teacher, and what has been passed down from tattoo artist to tattoo artist throughout generations. This is why what we do is so important, this balancing, even if other people may not realize it. It's a necessity, but it's also a gift. Whether or not it's magic, it's ultimately about the yin and yang within ourselves. And with each other. We are social creatures after all. Our most powerful relationships transform us."

"It's why our tattoos can move?"

"Precisely," Sabine smiles. "What can the dark do, but give the light a place to shine? And what gives shape to the light, but the dark? When you find that balance, that's when you make a home of yourself."

Even when coached as a lesson, Sabine's words fall as soft and familiar as a storybook tale. Marinette's childhood was saturated by the stories Sabine used to tell her. Some were myths, some were made up, some were read from books, some explained her tattoos, but they were all masterfully and artfully told by Sabine. If imagination had a voice, young Marinette always imagined it as her mother's.

The graceful lines of Sabine's hands lead up to her arms, bared by her t-shirt. If Tom's tattoos were Marinette's childhood colouring book, Sabine's were her picture books. Circles the size of large coins march a straight line from Sabine's wrist to shoulder, each encapsulating an exquisitely rendered scene from Wenzhou, China.

Marinette remembers visiting Wenzhou once when she was little, but her own memories are merely faint echoes of crowded streets, long ferry rides, and relatives plying her with more food than she could consume in several lifetimes. But even if her own recollections are hazy, each of Sabine's tattoos are as vivid and dimensional as miniature dioramas; looking at each scene really does feel like peering through a window into another world. Marinette can almost hear the overlapping cries of vendors yelling across the market of bright, delicately inked fruits and vegetables on her mother's arm, or smell the warm salt of the impossibly blue waters of Nanji Island as they lap against the rocky cliffs. The tattoos of the lush green mountains of Wuyanling appear soft as a watercolour dream, but Marinette knows them to be truly like that thanks to Sabine's stories, her memories.

The tattoos are of a different time and place of the same woman who makes Marinette crêpes when she's sick, who exchanges quick volleys of jokes and well wishes with the easy fluency of one born and raised in Paris, and who strolls along the Seine and tucked away back alleyways alike, utterly at home. And despite the life built upon the tattoo shop then the bakery, Sabine's tattoos are an everlasting reminder of her heritage, keeping her memories close and fresh as the day they were collected, no matter how long ago.

Marinette understands then, what her mother means when the soul needs to breathe through their tattoos. All that history, all that life in her soul should have the chance to shine through somehow, somewhere.

A frown crinkles Marinette's brow as she remembers her original problem. "So, if you've got _no_ tattoos…"

"If there's no outlet," Sabine muses, "I suppose there's no telling what could happen."

A chill runs a light finger down Marinette's spine. Lightning, she remembers. A sudden possibility alights in her mind, one she's never considered.

"Could- could a soul _make_ its own window?" Marinette suggests slowly. "Like… break out?"

Now Sabine frowns, worry clouding her expression. "I don't know. I've never had an experience with something or someone like that. Master Fu might be able to help you more." She watches Marinette twirl her cup faster and faster, tea rising over the lip and breaking upon its edge. She stops the frantic motion with a gentle hand. "You should keep an eye on your friend and make sure he doesn't hurt himself or anyone else around him."

"I felt him. It," Marinette blurts out. She releases her mug and juts her wrist out, pointing at the peonies sprawled over her skin. "Here. I felt- something, like, something coming through me and trying to find a way out."

"Is that why you got these too?" Sabine asks, her hand rising as if to touch the silver and blue anemones peeking out from the apron straps on Marinette's shoulder. Her fingers stop just shy of contact. "To provide another outlet? To help him?"

Profound shock eclipses every other emotion in Marinette's expression.

"I…" she starts, but trails off as her thoughts scatter. She finds them again as she remembers her fingers sunk in cool earth, of enveloping sunbeams and accidental static electricity, of the difference between perfection and happiness.

Her emotions have been a mix, a constant surprise around Adrien, but her actions have always been clear- even if they didn't immediately seem so to her at first.

"Yes," Marinette says simply. The realization, the admittance tastes strange in her mouth. She doesn't know what to make of it. "Whenever we touch, it's like…"

A sharp _bang_ of the front door opening strikes between their conversation, making them both jump. Marinette's tea finally succeeds in sloshing over the edge and splashing down over the countertop as she starts.

"Like that," Marinette whispers.

The faint approach of footfalls is overshadowed by Sabine's hum as a look of intense thought creases her face.

"That's not how a soulmate is supposed to feel right?" Marinette rushes into the pause. "But that's also not how a normal person should feel either."

"No," Sabine answers thoughtfully. "It's not. And he didn't touch your tattoos?"

Marinette shakes her head. "He didn't have to."

"But you _felt_ him." Sabine frowns. "So how did he get in like that then?"

"You speak friend!" The earlier interruption pokes his head in, the wide smile on his face undimmed by the shadow of his baseball cap. "And enter!"

A stunned silence greets Nino as Marinette and Sabine start, unprepared for his sudden appearance.

"Uhh." Nino's eyes widen sheepishly as he takes in the spilled tea, Marinette's preoccupied expression, and the thought creased deeply into the lines on Sabine's face. "Bad time?"

"Nonsense." Sabine recovers smoothly, rising up from her chair and coming forward to peck his cheeks in greeting. She bows around a familiar basket hanging from his arm. "You know you're always welcome here."

"Thanks," Nino grins, stooping down to kiss her cheeks back. "By the way, Tom asked me to ask you if you could come down and help him decorate the special order? I'm assuming he means the thousand and one tarts that's invaded the back kitchen."

"Oh dear. I better go," Sabine sighs, setting her cup down in the sink and wiping her hands. She levels a measuring look at Marinette, still clearly turning over the problem in her mind. "We'll talk later, ok?"

"Yeah," Marinette answers distractedly, her gaze locked on the basket swinging innocently from Nino's arm. "You should save papa before he stays up all night decorating them to perfection."

"He does like to get things just right," Sabine laughs. "Make yourself at home, Nino."

"Thanks," Nino grins as he sets the basket down on a patch of bare counter space. As Sabine heads down, he turns to Marinette and adds, "You definitely get the perfectionism from your dad."

Marinette narrows her eyes at him suspiciously. "Thanks?"

Nino merely raises an eyebrow and looks meaningfully at the rose frosted cupcakes, the matcha and chocolate turtles, and the large pies overcrowding the kitchen.

The thought of telling him that the quantity of baked goods is a result from overthinking rather than perfectionism dances at the tip of Marinette's tongue, but she lets go a good-natured laugh in defeat instead.

"Anyway… 'speak friend, and enter'?" Marinette asks, an eyebrow quirked as Nino slides into a seat next to her at the counter.

"Adrien and I binged through all of Lord of the Rings this weekend," Nino explains. He reaches up to rub tired eyes, knocking his glasses askew in the process. "The extended versions, too. I totally forgot so many details in the movies. Did you remember that orcs are born from that gross goopy mud? Although, speaking of…"

He snags a used mixing bowl and collects a chunk of cookie dough with the swipe of his finger. He looks at Marinette and pauses, a finger in his mouth and an uncomfortably knowing twinkle in his eye. "Are you wearing Adrien's apron?"

"Don't insult my baking like that," Marinette evades, trying to laugh the jibe about orc goop off instead of answering his sharp observation. "Especially if you've just come here to mooch."

"I would _never_ ," Nino deadpans, bringing hand over his heart in mock hurt. As if he didn't spend most of his childhood and adolescence gleefully chowing down every treat Sabine and Tom always left for him, Alya, and Marinette to consume after school. He quirks a smile. "You're definitely wearing Adrien's apron. It's got the flowershop logo on it."

Marinette's cheeks heat up and she hastily stands and bustles to the sink, grabbing a dirty mixing bowl to scrub clean.

"I just haven't had the chance to return it to him," she defends, not meeting Nino's eyes. His gaze is always the one that catches her unaware, at times she never expects so can never prepare for. "And it's the only clean apron I've got at the moment."

"Uh huh." The dryness of Nino's tone isn't one she can fight against. Sometimes, Marinette thinks he knows her weak spots better than even Alya. He softens and relents. "Though speaking of, Adrien asked me to bring this back to you."

He nudges the basket on the countertop with his elbow, uttering a soft "Oh shi-" as he accidentally knocks a turtle off the edge. He catches it just by the tip of his fingers as he lunges for it, saving it from a crumbly demise upon the floor.

Marinette pauses, bowl and sponge dripping from her hands, before setting them both down in the sink and wiping her hands dry on her apron. A small sound of surprise escapes her as she draws the basket towards her, finding it heavier than she expected.

NIno comes up, turtle in hand, and watches expectantly.

The lid folds back under Marinette's hands, and a soft sea of blue and purple lupines greets her. She plucks a single stem up, watching as the tall spike waves up with the weight of the numerous blooms spiraling around the long stalk. The blooms at the tip remain closed still, still green and growing, graduating into full bloom towards the lower end of the stem. Marinette's fingers hover over the fully opened flowers at the bottom, just shy of touching a violet rich and vibrant enough to taste.

She lowers the flower to place on the countertop and changes her mind halfway, tucking it instead into the pocket of her apron. When she closes the lid of the basket, her hands are shaking. The mashup of her emotions churn in her mind, whirling faster and faster and faster until-

"He bugs me," Marinette blurts out.

Nino freezes mid-bite, the turtle pastry dangling precariously from his fingertips. He looks, wide-eyed, at Marinette. "Uhh…"

"No no no, ugh, that came out wrong." Frustrated, Marinette runs her hands through her short hair until it stands on end. "I like Adrien. A lot! Like, maybe indecently sometimes. Wait, maybe that's too much info..."

"I'm getting mixed messages here."

"Arghhhh!" Marinette groans. She topples forward until her forehead clunks down on the countertop. "Shouldn't this, whatever this is, be easy for me to figure out? Or like, simple at least? He's a great guy and a great friend."

Slowly, as if not to startle her, Nino says, "I mean, I've known Adrien long enough to tell you that he's got issues like any other person." He takes off one of the turtle's legs in a large bite. As he chews, he continues, "But all things considered, he's really chill."

"He is!" Marinette rolls her head so her cheek rests on the counter as she looks up to Nino. "That's why I don't get why I'm so jumbled around him?"

"You like him?" Nino suggests bluntly, taking off the turtle's head next. He snorts as Marinette puffs her cheeks and petulantly blows flour off from the countertop up at him. "You've never been very subtle or smooth when you've liked someone, Mari. You're usually barely coherent."

"Thanks Nino. I knew I could count on you to lift my spirits and help me out. Where would I be without you," Marinette deadpans.

"I could channel Alya instead and use your cell to phone Adrien so you could ask him out. Right now."

"Oh god please, no," Marinette laughs. "You're the worst."

"Maybe I'd be doing you a favour," Nino shrugs. He finishes the rest of the turtle with a decisive chomp and reaches for another. "You think too much in your head sometimes. You should just go with the flow."

"You know I don't do improv well. I'm a planner."

"You're an overthinker. Still a perfectionist either way," he teases. After a moment's thought, he starts laughing. "Yeah… you _really_ don't do improv well."

"That was _one_ time," Marinette protests loudly as she guesses what's on his mind, "and we were both like, thirteen! Asking you out through a phone call was Alya's idea."

"Was rambling on about homework for fifteen minutes in the beginning her idea too?" Nino raises a brow, a shit-eating grin on his face. "I loved the part where you called me a 'cool dude'."

"I was nervous!" Marinette throws her hands up. "I panicked!"

"My favourite bit," Nino chuckles, "was when you phoned back right after hanging up because you forgot to actually ask me out the first time around."

"No wonder you said no."

"Hey, I panicked too! Alya gave me such a hard time about it…"

"Yeah, she really ripped through you afterwards," Marinette laughs, remembering. "That's ok, our timing was never really right. We always kept missing one another. And then you and Alya found out about each other…"

"Hey," Nino interrupts, voice gone soft. "Alya might be my soulmate, but that doesn't make what I felt about you any less real or any less… well, less. I always felt really lucky, that you liked me too." A faint smile steals over his face as Marinette leans over and pecks his cheek. As she draws away, she feels the _what-if_ strung between them, hanging for a weighted second. It slips away when he continues, "I know Adrien would feel like the luckiest guy too, if he knew how you felt about him."

" _I_ don't even know how I really feel about him," Marinette points out, sighing as she leans down on the counter with crosses arms. The lupine presses against her hip as she rests against the counter, suddenly making her self-conscious of who's apron she was conspicuously wearing.

"Don't you?" Nino looks pointedly at said apron. "C'mon now."

Marinette chews her bottom lip in thought and resists the childish urge to pluck out a lupine and jab it into Nino's face, more to evade the whole conversation than anything else. If only it was as simple as merely liking Adrien.

"Alright," she says. "Maybe I do. You've known him for a while, don't you find him easy to like? And I don't mean because he's a famous and ridiculously good looking actor or model or something. There's something… else to him."

A thoughtful look steals over Nino's expression as he helps himself to another shortbread turtle. He plays with it between his fingers as he slowly pieces his thoughts aloud. "You know how some people are really attractive, but the more you talk to them, the less attractive they seem to get? Like there's just no substance underneath. Maybe they're rude, or bigoted, or whatever. And then there's sort of the opposite. There're people who only get better the more you get to know them, like their personality shines through and their face becomes something... else. Something more." He looks at Marinette and says, easily, "Adrien's probably one of the most beautiful people I know."

"... dang Nino," Marinette breathes. "Are you sure you guys aren't soulmates?"

"Nah," he chuckles. "Well, at least not for me. We checked. Can't say for him though since he hasn't got any tattoos. Although…"

The way Nino's brow suddenly furrows as a question enters his expressive eyes has Marinette leaning forward and prompting him with, "What?"

"Well, you know my tattoos. And you know what happens when Alya touches them."

"Mmhmm," Marinette hums. His first tattoos had been just two simple thin lines running parallel down his back, years ago when they all got their first tattoos. Since then, he's come to her for an expansion, turning two strings into a geometric symphony across his back and down his arms in sweeping curvilinear lines that run the entire expanse of his back like a music staff given wings. They reach down to his forearms, looping over and over until they converge and end in a single point on his wrists.

She'd teased him on how he turned his compositions into math like a _nerd_ , but even though she suffered multiple hand cramps and fierce headaches from the intense concentration of maintaining so many clean lines, she thinks his tattoos may be one that she's proudest to have done.

"The strings vibrate. I've seen it."

"Yeah." Nino runs a hand over his head, as if bracing himself, then taps the visible ink on his arm. "But that's only half of it. I _hear_ it, in my head, the different notes and sounds that Alya can bring out when she touches my tattoos. I guess like synesthesia. But the thing is, I sometimes hear- I think I hear _echoes_ when I'm around certain people, like you or Adrien. But it's nothing definitive, it's just… a resonance. And that frequency can sometimes _change_ , like it's being tuned. Like when I first met Adrien, nothing. Now I get… it's weird, it's like a dissonance somehow, but it's still something. It's like my tattoos are telling me, there's a maybe."

Marinette frowns. "A maybe? Soulmates are a sure thing Nino. Either you know, or you don't."

"All I'm saying is, maybe things can change," he argues. "I like to think it can, anyway."

"Like away, but soulmates are fact. They're predetermined. That's not something that just changes."

"Who says they can't?"

"Like, everyone."

"Well I volunteer as tribute then, to be the first to prove you all wrong," Nino chuckles. "I know what I hear. What I _feel_. Even now, sitting here next to you, there's- something." His fingers ghost over the lines on his forearms, as if playing them like an instrument.

"Maybe you're reacting to something else," Marinette frowns.

"Feel free to check me yourself, and see where we stand," he offers with an easy grin. "I promise, no matter what my tattoos do, nothing will change unless you want it to."

She's fairly certain she knows the answer already, and the temptation to actually _know_ makes her fingers itch. Still, she shakes her head and emphatically replies, "No."

Nino shrugs, easy-going, but doesn't quite let her off the hook this time. "I know you don't like anyone touching your tattoos but… why again?"

"I don't want to know," Marinette frowns. "I don't want something that's supposedly predestined to be confirmed. I want to do things and choose people my own way."

"I get that," Nino comments thoughtfully as he helps himself to a cupcake. Instead of immediately biting into the delicate flowers iced on top, he carefully traces a petal with a gentle finger. "But I don't think that's entirely it."

"What do you mean?" A strange, sinking sensation twists in her stomach, the sort of gut feeling that tells her she won't like what she's going to hear.

"I think," Nino says, looking up and squarely into her eyes, "that you don't like being vulnerable."

The words come at Marinette like a blow. She takes the punch, even as it bruises her pride with its truth, and rallies back, "Who likes being exposed? So many people get hurt that way."

"Yeah- like you," Nino points out.

His simple observation hurts, like pressing a bruise she never realized she had. She's spent so long thinking of others, of drawing boundaries so she wouldn't hurt them, that concern for her own well-being hides so cleverly and carefully behind those walls. She doesn't like to admit that selfishness has a part in feeding the roots of her actions.

"And what," Marinette frowns. "You're M. Invincible now, are you?"

"Oh hell," Nino laughs, of all things. "Mari, I'm always scared. My imagination has enough running around in there to make me anxious all the time. I'm _always_ vulnerable."

"That sounds terrible," Marinette retorts. "I'd hate feeling like I couldn't do something about that."

"So your way of 'doing something about it' is to keep everything a secret? That doesn't make you invincible either. What makes you think that someone like Adrien's not feeling the exact same way?"

"Annoyed?"

"Scared."

The lupine in Marinette's apron pocket bows into her hand as she reaches for it. Her hand involuntarily closes into a fist as she grips its stem. When she brings it up to light, she can feel the purple petals staining her palms like phantom bruises. Adrien's marigold apron suddenly feels strange on her body, like wearing a skin that's not quite her own. But in some ways, it's similar, familiar in a way she's always known. They both know how to hide behind their jobs, the duty of it.

It's a defensive position, at best. But the game Adrien plays these days is very different, open among the flowers and under the sun. And maybe that's all happiness really is: something heady, encompassing, and ultimately ephemeral. Even sunshine can't last forever.

Her hand unfurls, revealing fewer stains among her fingers than she expects. The lupine falls to cover her entire hand, its tip pointing away like a compass. She doesn't need much imagination to wonder where- or who- it'll take her to.

"I guess the risks wouldn't really be worth it," Marinette murmurs, the weight of Adrien's kindness balanced in her palm, "if you didn't have something to lose."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom’s tattoos.](http://mmmatchaball.tumblr.com/post/141186668415/shitiseeontwitter-this-is-so-adorable)   
>  [Sabine’s tattoos.](http://mmmatchaball.tumblr.com/post/153191022617/culturenlifestyle-stunning-dreamlike-circular)   
>  [Nino’s tattoos. ](http://68.media.tumblr.com/2fe421df3e6c8709928428eb00ec885a/tumblr_nvtl0bIMDU1u38l26o5_250.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> It’s been nearly a year!! Dishonour on me, my cow, etc etc etc. Two big things happened: I graduated, and I got a job!!! It’s been crazy fun and intense and exciting, but incredibly time-consuming and energy-draining. A the end of most days, I cook lunch, walk my dog, then fall right into bed. 
> 
> Regardless, a million, million, million apologies for how long this chapter took! This story was always lowkey slow cooking in my mind no matter how busy I got, and tbh, I think a long simmer was what I needed for this story to go through. For both plot and personal reasons. I do realize that the long chapters and long wait between chapters makes this slow burn _painfully_ slow, but I hope you’re enjoying the ride nonetheless :’) The unbelievably sweet, supportive, patient, and encouraging comments kept this story alive for me, and continues to do so when I’m sitting in front of a blank page thinking, _I can’t do this._ But I can, and I will, because this story is still wonderfully fun for me to write, and because it’s such a joy to find it makes other people happy- even now, after so long :’)
> 
> (Now here’s hoping I can get chapter 7 out before Christmas!)
> 
> And also an _enormous_ thank you to-
> 
> ♥ [@jesuisunjardin](http://jesuisunjardin.tumblr.com/tagged/featured) (for this lovely [adrinette sketch](http://jesuisunjardin.tumblr.com/post/155367767203/oh-if-you-felt-like-it-adrien-and-marinette))  
> ♥ [@kwamikwami](http://kwamikwami.tumblr.com/) (for this [gorgeous moodboard](http://kwamikwami.tumblr.com/post/155509629809/his-hand-never-strays-from-where-she-has-offered))  
> ♥ [@larvesta](http://larvesta.tumblr.com/) (for this [INCREDIBLE comic](http://larvesta.tumblr.com/post/157272406264/happy-birthday-matchaball-i-hope-im-not) of chapter 3!)  
> ♥ [@chiumonster](http://chiumonster.tumblr.com/) (for this [perfect adrinette moment](http://chiumonster.tumblr.com/post/157306881758/happy-birthday-my-dearest-matchaball-this) in the flowershop)  
> ♥ [@lunecake](http://lunecake.tumblr.com/) (for a [fabulous cosplay](http://lunecake.tumblr.com/post/157711968083/happy-belated-birthday-matchaball-im-so-sorry), and two [wonderful](http://lunecake.tumblr.com/post/157512347083/sorry-i-dont-have-a-lot-to-post-these-days-ive) [drawings](http://lunecake.tumblr.com/post/152986367288/a-slightly-older-but-always-fashionable-djwifi-for))  
> ♥ [@12hues](http://12hues.tumblr.com/) (for making [me cry](http://12hues.tumblr.com/post/162767533142/commission-for-my-dear-carmen-3-easily-my). [TWICE](http://12hues.tumblr.com/post/152374079257/its-been-forever-since-ive-drawn-digitally-woo).)  
> ♥ [@qookyquiche](https://qookyquiche.tumblr.com/) (for this darling [adrinette drawing](https://qookyquiche.tumblr.com/post/152422571190/day-28-of-inktober-2016-its-almost-over-so-i))  
> ♥ [@maaarble](http://maaarble.tumblr.com/) (for this [beautiful Marinette moment](http://maaarble.tumblr.com/post/152316913179/her-tattoos-blend-with-the-bouquet-of-flowers) in chapter 3)  
> ♥ [@goonlalagoon](http://goonlalagoon.tumblr.com/) (for a great rendition of [Luck be A Lady](http://goonlalagoon.tumblr.com/post/163063880820/a-few-weeks-ago-i-rediscovered-matchaball-s) and the [Catmint Print](http://goonlalagoon.tumblr.com/post/162994751145/a-few-weeks-ago-i-rediscovered-matchaball-s))

**Author's Note:**

> The [Catmint Print](http://67.media.tumblr.com/4f19cb6cc04c1e8162c5c66f69acd4dc/tumblr_mlbm8gittg1riwr5vo1_1280.jpg). 
> 
> I wouldn't truly have contributed to a fandom if I didn't write at least one tattoo/flowershop au for it! Please bear with me as I work my way through the pacing of this story. It's arguably the first plotted multi-chaptered fic that I'm attempting, so my regular writing preference for unrelated vignettes/drabbles won't hold up in this kind of linear sequence of events. There's a lot of world-building in this au that I want to establish too, so please let me know if anything isn't clear or is confusing to you! 
> 
> I've been working on the outline for this for over a month now and am super excited to bring this story to the places I've imagined! Hope you'll come along for the ride :) 
> 
> Feel free to poke me on [tumblr](http://matchaball.tumblr.com/) as well!


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